THE RED COLONEL 
 
 B1W, DP CALIF. LIBRARY. LOfl ANGEMS
 
 "Vesta noted . . . that he was the same who had accosted her." 
 
 [PAGE 34.]
 
 THE 
 
 RED COLONEL 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE EDGAR 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 1913
 
 OoPTtlUHT, 
 
 . APPLETON AND COMPANY
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 "Vesta noted . . . that he was the same who had ac- 
 costed her." Frontispiece 
 
 "Quickly ... he unlocked the chambers and emptied 
 the cartridges on to the table" 16 
 
 "The man felt the cold barrel of a revolver at his 
 temple" 244 
 
 "His eyes wandered over the girl's face. Bold, dark, 
 cunning, their glance seemed to carry a message." 274
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE Black Lion at Missingham, a village in 
 Bucks, is a small hotel standing on the main 
 road. A black lion, rampant, has creaked 
 there on the weather-beaten signpost since the days of 
 Cromwell. 
 
 Each morning, a few of the village people go to the 
 hotel and talk over the affairs of the many who are 
 absent. There, you may learn who has run away with 
 his neighbor's wife, the latest bankruptcy, what the 
 vicar said to the drunken poacher, or Missingham's 
 private opinion of the Prime Minister and the Govern- 
 ment's Foreign Policy. 
 
 The Black Lion is a building of a dusky, red brick 
 color, with a gabled frontage. The hotel has always 
 prided itself on an ability to offer good accommoda- 
 tion for man and beast but, in these days, the beast 
 does not amount to much. The square stable yard, 
 harbor for gigs and chaises of another generation, is 
 now a garage. Trim young men in uniform, and the 
 scent of petrol, have ousted straw-chewing, lean- jawed 
 men in corduroy and the homely smell of stables. 
 
 Missingham is a sleepy village with one main street 
 this last a part of the London road. It is a place 
 very human in all its ways, packed away in a valley 
 
 1
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 and bounded picturesquely by the gently rolling Chil- 
 tern Hills. Missingham is conservative of habit, 
 thought and appearance. Nothing changes there and 
 no one wants change, beyond a cattle show trip to Lon- 
 don once a year. Thirteenth-century cottages, with 
 green, moss-covered roofs, linger, secure from defile- 
 ment at the hands of the jerry builder. Old traditions 
 are still vital in the minds of the inhabitants. A man 
 who cannot show a relationship with the village, ex- 
 tending over three generations, is a stranger. The 
 very cottagers speak of their grandfathers, and the 
 grandfathers before them, as occupying the same 
 hovels. When Mr. Geoffrey Brassbound, a London so- 
 licitor, after twenty years' residence in Missingham, 
 essayed to become a Parish Councillor, a yokel made a 
 speech recommending another man who belonged to 
 the place and deprecating the interference in local af- 
 fairs of outsiders who had only just come to the vil- 
 lage. Missingham attempts nothing rash and watches 
 every detail of its own routine very closely. An in- 
 tense curiosity on the part of every soul in the short- 
 comings of the rest of the population is the one last- 
 ing, dominant, public interest. 
 
 In the Black Lion on a particular morning in No- 
 vember a few years ago this public interest was finding 
 expression. 
 
 Round the fire in the square smoke-room sat five men. 
 Each man stood for the trade of the village. They 
 were relaxing from strenuous intimacy with the com- 
 mercial life of the country, over vessels containing 
 varied but suitable eleven o'clock refreshment, all al- 
 coholic. 
 
 t
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "I don't know what you men think," said Ramus 
 Sturt, the grocer; "but I can't make him out. I re- 
 member Wayside Lodge and everybody who has lived 
 in it during my time, but these people cap the lot. 
 Reg'lar mysteries to me, they are." 
 
 "What's wrong with them?" asked Isaac Broad- 
 leigh, the landlord of the Black Lion. "Don't they 
 pay?" 
 
 "Oh! yes; they pay all right," Tim Shepstone, the 
 butcher, answered. "There's no trouble that way. But 
 they are the same as everybody else, only different." 
 
 "How?" asked the landlord. 
 
 "That's where you have me," Tim said, solemnly. 
 "All I can say is they're mysteries especially him. 
 She's all right quite the lady, she is. A stunner in 
 looks, too. She has all the female 'nuts' pining away 
 when it comes to looks. But him well, I don't get him 
 right, anyway." 
 
 "But why?" persisted the landlord. 
 
 "Why that's the point," said John Abrahams, the 
 house agent. "Tim's right they are mysteries. I let 
 'em the house, and I've thought that since I first saw 
 him. He wouldn't give references like an ordinary 
 man. I was going to choke him off and would have 
 done so, but we'd had the Lodge empty for twelve 
 months. Sir Thomas Digley's agent was getting 
 crusty about it. And what could I say when, instead of 
 references, he offered me a year's rent in advance. I 
 took him and there they are." 
 
 "Well," said Harry Tompkinson, the plumber, a 
 florid, genial man. "My motto is speak of people as 
 you find 'em. All I know of 'em is they've been all
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 right to me, and that's more than I can say of some 
 people who were born here. I've worked for the Lodge 
 and they've treated me white. What they owe, they 
 pay and quickly. But he's nervous there's no error 
 about that. You should see the locks I put on every 
 door and the catches on the windows. He'll just try 
 anything that looks like a burglar alarm. Man, you'd 
 think he had the Bank of England in the Lodge, the 
 way he guards it. But the old chap has been all right 
 to me his money is, anyway and that young Miss 
 Copeland is a thoroughbred." 
 
 "Well that's the how of it," Sturt began again, 
 insistently. "They may be all right and they may not 
 when you know 'em, but no one does know 'em. The 
 vicar told me, himself, he called six times and they were 
 not at home each time. No one calls there now, be- 
 cause they never call back. And nobody has been in- 
 side that house since they came, barring Harry here, 
 who put in the burglar alarms. I call them queer." 
 
 "Yes, that's right," Tim Shepstone agreed. "No- 
 body knows nothing about 'em, and they don't seem to 
 want us to, either. You hardly ever see the old man 
 out of his own grounds, except for an hour each morn- 
 ing, or, more often, at dark. They never go anywhere 
 by train and no one ever visits them. I don't think 
 they ever speak to any one, except " 
 
 He stopped and winked salaciously at the company, 
 and the others all nodded significantly, as the gossips 
 of Missingham do when they speak of men and 
 women. 
 
 "Except the schoolmaster's young man," Shepstone 
 continued. "He's all right at the Lodge, anyhow." 
 
 4
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "My opinion is, he's sweet on the girl," leered Abra- 
 hams. 
 
 "I saw them coming along the top fields at dusk last 
 night," Harry Tompkinson said, smirking into a mug 
 of beer. "She wasn't half telling him the tale." 
 
 "And he calls there often," Sturt said, with a nod 
 meant to be significant. "I saw young Waring com- 
 ing out of Wayside only a week ago." 
 
 The conversation languished here through sheer lack 
 of initiative. The company at the Black Lion looked 
 at each other, smiled, winked, nodded and turned 
 unanimously to the important business of refreshment. 
 
 Isaac Broadleigh had risen and walked to the bay 
 window. He gazed up the village street and down it, 
 from the leaded panes. He whistled a few bars of a 
 once popular song that saw its zenith twenty years 
 ago, as a man may do who has a mind free from pre- 
 occupation. Then, suddenly, the melody was arrested 
 in its flow. Isaac was looking down the village street 
 with obvious interest. 
 
 "Speaking of the devil," he said, ponderously, "here 
 he comes." 
 
 "Aye there he is, sure enough," Shepstone agreed, 
 rushing to the window. 
 
 Forthwith, the rest of the company joined the two 
 in the roomy bay and peered through the little panes 
 of leaded glass. 
 
 A city man, accustomed to the curiosities of busy 
 streets, would have expected something very unusual. 
 The arrival of a circus ; the processional progress of a 
 member of the royal family, or, at least, a lord mayor ; 
 the possible injury of some citizen, by accident; a 
 
 5
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 street fight, or the graceful passage of some well- 
 known beauty might, in a city, have separately ac- 
 counted for such an unanimous display of interest. 
 
 Undoubtedly the company assembled at the Black 
 Lion were interested as fully interested as townspeo- 
 ple might be watching a pageant yet all they saw was 
 one aged man. 
 
 And yet, squarely examined, this old man was inter- 
 esting. There was personality about him character, 
 atmosphere, the quality of commanding attention, or 
 whatever you choose to call it. 
 
 The gossips saw a man about sixty-four, known to 
 them as Paul Copeland. He walked with a distinct 
 stoop. His eyes were fixed on the pavement. A stick 
 he carried was used to tap the stone edge of the para- 
 pet. He seemed concentrated on tapping every yard 
 of it, with the fidelity of the railway servant who 
 sounds the wheels of express trains for flaws. 
 
 He wore a silk hat, very shabby, and the furred nap 
 of which was, in parts, brushed the wrong way. His 
 frock coat, cut out of a dark blue fabric, was of an 
 antique pattern and closely buttoned. His linen col- 
 lar was worn low, and a thin black bow was knotted un- 
 derneath it. His trousers were tight and gave his legs 
 a spidery, fragile appearance. The boots he wore were 
 also of an old pattern, having no ornamentation. 
 Made very plain, they were elastic sided, and gave to 
 the feet a suggestion of military primness. Somewhat 
 faded he looked at first sight, a gaunt, bent, rusty 
 shadow; the kind of man one thinks of as moving 
 through life, without being of it. The effect such a 
 man has on the passer-by is precisely the impression 
 
 6
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 created by an undertaker at a funeral. One does not 
 see him and yet you are always conscious of his pres- 
 ence. Self-effacing, unobtrusive, in the background, 
 he moves in such a way that one feels he is the most 
 vigilant watcher present, seeing the detail of the sur- 
 rounding drama of life as it is to be observed through 
 a microscope. 
 
 What was odd about Paul Copeland? Certainly 
 nothing about his bent figure, for many old men are 
 bent. His clothes, of good quality, but old-fashioned, 
 were not sufficient to bespeak attention. The tap, tap 
 of the iron ferrule of his stick upon the stone curb was 
 arresting, but not unusual. Old men often have this 
 action. They seem to be ticking off impressions of 
 their lives, day by day, with a determination to recall 
 the full total of their recollections. 
 
 No the odd thing about this man was his face. 
 Have you ever seen a live man's face that looked as if 
 it were dead? That would describe this man's face. 
 Long and lean it was ; yellow as the parchment of an 
 old will; crinkled, faded, colorless. One eye was sight- 
 less. Where the eye should have been was a puckered 
 slit in the skin, a little discolored. You thought of 
 that eye as having been torn out, violently, in some 
 ruthless moment of brutality. The other eye was a 
 pale, cold, shining gray. It had a frozen brightness, a 
 wintry glaring brightness, giving the impression of an 
 eye bent on watching everything without taking pleas- 
 ure in any sight it saw. The nose had a sharp lengthj 
 with wide, distended nostrils. The long, thin lips had 
 sunk a little ; missing the support of absent teeth. The 
 lips were colorless and dry. The face was clean 
 
 7
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 shaven. The big silk hat came low down on to the 
 head and seemed to rest on the sunken nape of the 
 neck. The little hair exposed to view was closely 
 cropped and of iron gray. The whole effect of the 
 face was exceptional. It made one think of a yellow 
 mask, left to shrivel and fade in the mildewed atmos- 
 phere of a dusty property room of some old-fash- 
 ioned theater. Although one eye gleamed and proved 
 life was in the brain behind the mask, the face made the 
 observer think of the withered shell of a dead head 
 of a head long dead, and resurrected, to be examined 
 with the same shudder of horror one gives when gazing 
 into the stark features of a mummy. 
 
 Such a man passed down the main street of Missing- 
 ham in the sunlight of a frosty November morning. 
 
 He would have passed like a shadow, in the ordinary 
 way, as, many times, he had passed before merely 
 exciting the usual comment. 
 
 As the gossiping traders looked through the little 
 panes of glass, in the Black Lion's windows, the man 
 who held their attention was walking on, with his single 
 eye fixed upon the ferrule of his stick as it tapped the 
 stone curb. 
 
 A man shambled toward him, in the center of the 
 road. No one would have looked at the stranger twice. 
 He was dressed in the fashion of maimed sailors who 
 beg in public places, and presented a burly figure, in 
 blue jersey, with white duck pants. One knitted sleeve 
 of the jersey flapped empty and was tucked loosely in 
 the man's belt. He came in the opposite direction, 
 walking with the easy swing of the tramp, not look- 
 ing to right or left. He passed Paul Copeland, the 
 
 8
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 object of the live attention of the villagers passed, 
 without apparently even observing him. His progress 
 was only noted by the watchers, in the same sense that 
 an observer would note the shadow of a bat, flitting 
 through the moonlight. 
 
 But the watchers in the bay of the Black Lion win- 
 dow had something definite on which to whet their 
 curiosity that morning. 
 
 Paul Copeland suddenly stopped in his progress. 
 He brought himself up sharply with the swaying mo- 
 tion of a man whose diseased heart has received a shock 
 and for a second or two has ceased to beat, leaving 
 the frame it animates with the sense of suffocating 
 finality expressed by breathlessness, dizziness and the 
 horrible feeling a man has sometimes of losing touch 
 with the only real things he knows. For a moment or 
 two, thus arrested, Copeland stood there, swaying in 
 the sunlight. Then, suddenly, he recovered and turned 
 round. He watched the begging sailor walk down the 
 center of the sleepy street. His dead face seemed 
 alive with shocked surprise. The muscles of the puck- 
 ered slit in the yellow cheekbone, where once had been 
 an eye, quivered as they must have done when that eye 
 was torn out. The one eye in the mask of a face fol- 
 lowed the retreating figure apparently held as if hyp- 
 notized. The pale, vigilant pupil was dilated with 
 terror. 
 
 At that moment, Paul Copeland became conscious of 
 his surroundings. He crossed the street with an un- 
 steady motion, and for the first time walked into the 
 Black Lion. 
 
 He stood staring and blinking in the smoke room, 
 
 9
 
 against the bar, Missingham's curious tradesmen now 
 silent, watching him astonished at the man's unusual 
 presence in their midst. 
 
 "Brandy," Copeland said, in a voice devoid of color, 
 though not of a hint of agitation; "a stiff dose of 
 brandy. As quick as you can I am ill." 
 
 Rose, Hebe to Missingham's critics at the Black 
 Lion, swiftly placed a four-finger peg before him. 
 
 Copeland poured a little water into the spirit, the 
 jug clattering against the rim of the glass. 
 
 Raising the tumbler, he swallowed the fluid greedily 
 as if it were liquid life. 
 
 "God!" he mumbled, with a gasp, for the strong 
 spirit had caught his breath. He was almost unaware 
 of the presence of any one but himself. "The Red 
 Colonel at last," he added, in a whisper. 
 
 Copeland seemed suddenly to recall himself to a rela- 
 tionship with his surroundings. He fumbled in his 
 pocket and at length put down a coin upon the bar 
 top and left without taking up his change, or saying a 
 single word implying the recognition of other folk 
 about him. 
 
 As he went unsteadily down the village street, the 
 gossips watched his progress, through the tiny win- 
 dow panes, their surprise gradually fading out the 
 farther he drew away. 
 
 "Say what you like," said Shepstone, speaking like a 
 man awakening from a trance, "I call that queer. I 
 call it very queer." 
 
 "Same here," said Sturt; "just what I have always 
 said." 
 
 "You're right," Abrahams added, contentedly re- 
 
 10
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 turning to his tankard. "I call it queer, too. The 
 queerest touch this year, I reckon." 
 
 "Damned queer," quoth Isaac Broadleigh, nodding 
 his large head. "The damned queerest thing I ever did 
 see. Let's sell the pony for another drink." 
 
 They forgot Shepstone as they placed their coins 
 on the table. 
 
 Shepstone, who was a near man and did not like to 
 pay, "showed," finally to the landlord, and called 
 "lady." 
 
 Broadleigh's lucky farthing revealed the King's 
 head upturned. 
 
 Shepstone paid and looked sadly out of the leaded 
 windows as a man may look who bleeds internally.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 WAYSIDE LODGE was a grim, square 
 Georgian building faced with white stone. 
 Not big enough to be called a mansion, the 
 place was neither small enough to be described as a 
 cottage. 
 
 The house was roomy in a commonplace, solid man- 
 lier. The apartments were big and lofty, if they did 
 not vary in shape. A feature was the many windows 
 looking out over a spacious lawn, and fairly extensive 
 grounds. The general effect of the house was forbid- 
 ding, an impression heightened perhaps by the new 
 tenant's apparent preference for shuttered, instead of 
 curtained, window spaces. A casual inspection of Way- 
 side Lodge suggested the house was empty. Usually no 
 sign of life, beyond the thin spiral of smoke ascending 
 from one of the chimneys, was observable by day. Even 
 at night only one or two windows discovered lights and 
 these gleamed through chinks in the closed shutters. 
 In the evening of the day when Paul Copeland's man- 
 ner displayed signs of ill-health to the watching vil- 
 lagers of Missingham, the tenant of Wayside Lodge sat 
 alone in the room he used habitually. 
 
 Paul Copeland's favorite apartment was a room 
 upon the first floor called the study. This room served 
 Copeland for almost every living purpose indeed he 
 had just taken tea there, the tray remaining upon a 
 corner of the heavy mahogany table. An unlighted
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 lamp stood In the center of this table. Two easy 
 chairs, shabby and worn, upholstered in horsehair 
 after the ugly manner of another generation, were be- 
 fore the fire. A camp bedstead was in one corner of 
 the room, provided with rugs, mattress and pillow 
 ready for use. One side of the study was covered by 
 heavy book shelves, hundreds of neglected volumes be- 
 ing left there exposed to the dust. A bright fire blazed 
 in an old-fashioned grate. The room was devoid of 
 any decorative attempts to soften off the stiff angu- 
 larities of the architecture. No pictures were dis- 
 played upon the wall. In a rack hung a gun with a 
 repeating action and two heavy revolvers of the army 
 type, the blue metal looking sinister and ugly against 
 the gray, distempered wall. A plain traveler's clock 
 occupied the center of the mantelpiece in the midst 
 of a litter of books and pamphlets relating to steam- 
 ship and railway services. The whole appearance of 
 the place gave the impression that the room had been 
 made habitable and only just habitable by a man 
 who foresaw the prospect of having to move on sud- 
 denly. 
 
 The oddest feature about the room was the windows. 
 On the westerly side there were two, surveying a por- 
 tion of the lawn and looking directly on to the road, 
 that side of the room being parallel to it. They were 
 not only heavily shuttered but barred. On the side of 
 the room looking south was a pair of French windows 
 opening on to a balcony. Through these windows an- 
 other view of the lawn was commanded and the road to 
 the village could be seen for a full half mile. This 
 double window was fitted with heavy bolts but, by rea- 
 
 13 

 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 son of the expanse of glass and the balcony outside, 
 was evidently more vulnerable than any other approach 
 to the house. 
 
 In his home, Paul Copeland looked perhaps a more 
 remarkable man than he was, judged by the externals 
 exhibited to the villagers. He wore a shabby, quilted 
 smoking coat, reaching to his knees, that accentuated 
 the stoop of his body and the fragility of his physique. 
 The long, lean, dead face was surmounted by a black 
 skull cap. The contrast between the texture and color 
 of the cap and the yellowing, crinkled skin made the 
 face look more like aging parchment than ever. As 
 he sat huddled in a chair before the fire, seen from the 
 left or blind side of his face, where the empty socket 
 became a discolored slit, between the cheek bone and 
 brow, the suggestion of death became more acute until 
 Copeland moved and one saw the living, gray eye 
 staring fixedly with all its wintry brightness. 
 
 The hour was about five o'clock. What light there 
 had been was rapidly failing. Where the sun had set 
 in the glowering western sky was an angry red splash 
 of waning color. The night was coming quickly and 
 deepening the gray twilight. A wind was rising; the 
 growing breeze whining sadly in the trees and tossing 
 their bare branches. Sometimes the developing gale 
 rattled the windows and occasional rain, driven be- 
 fore it, pattered upon the glass panes. 
 
 Paul Copeland suddenly rose and looked out into 
 the oncoming night. Afterward he walked to the 
 double window, threw it open and stood upon the bal- 
 cony. His face was turned in the direction of the road 
 winding away to the village. His single eye was fixed 
 
 14
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 upon the dusky streak of macadam fading away in the 
 gloom. Copeland looked a strange figure enough 
 standing there, the skirts of his loose coat fluttering in 
 the wind, that also stirred the thin, short hair remain- 
 ing uncovered by the black cap. His one glistening 
 eye, apprehensive as its gaze swept the road, was the 
 only sign of life or consciousness about the still figure. 
 Copeland had no thought for the glowering mystery of 
 the coming night, nor sentiment for the departing 
 glory of the day. The face of the man was still ex- 
 pressionless. Something about the poise of the body 
 and head showed that he listened with acute, strained 
 attention. Judged by the persistency of the glance 
 directed to the road, Paul Copeland seemed to listen for 
 movement upon the highway. 
 
 Copeland remained upon the balcony for a full five 
 minutes, obviously concentrated on his own thoughts. 
 The last patch of light in the western sky faded out. 
 The road to the village disappeared from view. The 
 approach to Wayside Lodge quietly wrapped itself in 
 darkness until the only sign of the presence of the 
 highway was the sound of footsteps upon the flinty 
 surface. 
 
 When the light had gone, Paul Copeland returned 
 from the balcony to the room, shutting and barring 
 the double windows behind him, and lighted the lamp. 
 
 In the room, he took down the pair of revolvers and 
 eyed each one thoughtfully, his sure handling of the 
 weapons showing accustomed use. Quickly, with the 
 movements of an expert, he unlocked the chambers and 
 emptied the cartridges in the barrels on to the table. 
 This done, he tested the action of each pistol. Ap- 
 
 15
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 patently satisfied, he slipped the cartridges back into 
 the empty barrels and the weapons were once more 
 hung upon the rack. 
 
 A soft knocking was heard upon the room door. 
 Preoccupied, Copeland hardly seemed to hear it. The 
 knock was not repeated, but the door opened. A young 
 girl, attired for the outside world, entered, apparently 
 assured of the man's attention and interest. 
 
 Vesta Copeland was a girl of about twenty-three. 
 She was of the dark, restrained type of beauty with 
 a slim figure, whose carriage indicated considerable 
 physical strength. For the moment, she was clad in 
 a gray tweed walking costume, the coat but vaguely 
 indicating the lines of her strong, young shoulders. 
 A brown hat of suede leather fitted low upon her head 
 and hid the coils of glistening hair, black after the 
 manner of the raven's plumage. The face, standing 
 out in perfect oval from under the background of dark 
 suede as she lit the lamp, discovered unusual character. 
 
 Although soft with the roundness of youth, the face 
 was not lacking in purpose. The set of the dark eyes, 
 the straight firm lines of the brows, the well-shaped 
 nose with sensitive, nervous nostrils, and the lips, 
 slightly larger than a nice appreciation of beauty 
 would permit, all indicated the type of mental vigor 
 that expressed itself in action. There were tender- 
 ness and humor in this girl's face the one quality ex- 
 pressed by the mobility of the curving, highly sensi- 
 tive lips ; the other, by the hint of laughter ever ready 
 to kindle in the bright, clear eyes. The dark hair in 
 heavy coils gave the complexion something of the 
 quality of ivory. Closer appreciation of the more ex- 
 
 16
 
 " Quickly ... he unlocked the chambers and emptied the 
 cartridges on to the table."
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 quisite details of an arresting young face proved the 
 seeming whiteness to be but the pallor of contrast. 
 The texture of the skin suggested vigor and health 
 the vigor and health apparent in those who are physi- 
 cally and mentally under sound control. 
 
 The carriage of Vesta Copeland's body indicated the 
 same physical power. Though slight and graceful in 
 outline, the figure suggested action and exercise. The 
 plain habit of tweed could not entirely conceal the 
 graceful curves of ample shoulders, the lithe quality 
 of the long waist, or the easy swing from the hips as 
 she walked. Of average height, the supple, assured 
 carriage made Vesta Copeland appear taller than she 
 really was and the heavy walking costume served to 
 emphasize the impression she radiated of physical 
 strength and well-being. 
 
 "I am going out," she said, brightly, to Paul Cope- 
 land. 
 
 "You will be away how long?" he asked, slowly. 
 
 "An hour at the most," she answered. 
 
 He continued to pluck at his lips with nervous fin- 
 gers, dividing his glance between the healthy, young 
 face turned toward him and the sinister pair of re- 
 volvers on the wall. 
 
 "Aye very good, little one," Paul Copeland said, 
 at last. "I cannot keep you cooped up always. But 
 do not be away longer than you can help. The hours 
 drag when you are absent." 
 
 "At the outside, I'll only be an hour, Dad," 
 she said, with a laugh. "You will be all right for an 
 hour." 
 
 "I shall be all right for an hour," he answered. 
 
 17
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Vesta was turning away, when he spoke again, 
 rapidly. 
 
 "I guess you go to meet that young man, Waring 
 Stanley Waring, eh !" he suggested, his manner soften- 
 ing. 
 
 The girl nodded, frankly. 
 
 "I suppose your interest in each other is natural," 
 Copeland went on, speaking to himself more than to the 
 girl. "I cannot always drag you about the world amid 
 the uneasy purposes of my wandering life. Sometime 
 you will leave me and find safe anchorage. I do not 
 know whether I shall be glad or sorry glad to see you 
 safe and happy, or sorry because I may have to pass 
 on alone." 
 
 She looked at him, with a quick, startled glance in 
 her dark eyes. 
 
 "You said when you came to Missingham, from that 
 dull corner in Spain, that you had found sanctuary 
 here in this quiet village. You said our wanderings 
 were over." 
 
 Paul Copeland remained silent for a minute, his 
 dead face masking his feelings, his one eye seeming to 
 look inward upon some emotion sternly controlled. 
 
 "I was wrong," he replied, harshly ; "I was wrong." 
 
 Vesta's face showed the trouble in her mind. 
 
 "Again the shadow from which we are always hid- 
 ing," she began, quickly. "Is the old menace you dare 
 not face threatening us? Do we begin again do we 
 set out once more upon that weary, restless pilgrim- 
 age?" 
 
 Paul Copeland stood in the silent room, his head 
 sunk into his breast, his mind working on an old 
 
 18
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 problem, his nervous fingers betraying the man's un- 
 rest. 
 
 "Yes," he said, at last. "To-day, I saw the har- 
 binger of evil. The devil in my past stalked through 
 the present. We must move, at once." 
 
 "When?" the girl asked. 
 
 "To-morrow or the day after." 
 
 Vesta's eyes filled with unusual emotion. 
 
 "Can you not see how hard this will be for me ?" she 
 asked. "I thought we had found peace here in Miss- 
 ingham. I thought we might live as other people do. 
 And I have found love here in this village. My heart, 
 my life is not wholly yours. I want to stay." 
 
 Paul Copeland looked with his unwearied one eye 
 upon the girl, but its wintry glance had softened. Im- 
 possible to say what emotions strove behind the dead 
 mask of his still face. Some indication of his feelings 
 was perhaps afforded by his next action. He walked 
 toward the girl and patted her shoulders with a rough 
 display of affection. 
 
 "There little girl," he said, speaking as a man may 
 who thrusts away uneasy thoughts. "Leave me, now. 
 Go to that lover of yours ; better company by far than 
 an old man always the prey of his own fears. Perhaps 
 this time there may be a way out. You have been a 
 loyal friend to me, little one. Maybe, I did not see 
 what I thought I saw. Or perhaps, if my eye did not 
 deceive me, I can meet the new danger alone. But 
 there go to your lover. Leave me to think out what 
 I judge to be advisable and make the most of your time 
 now." 
 
 The girl walked toward the door to do his bidding. 
 
 19
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Paul Copeland stopped her before she left the room. 
 
 "By the way," he said, "you were saying this 
 youngster, Waring, talks of marriage. Does all go 
 well with you?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, a flush upon her white cheek. 
 "He is pressing me for permission to ask for your con- 
 sent." 
 
 Copeland hesitated for a moment. 
 
 "I like this lad," he said, at last. "Bring him in to- 
 night. I think I see a way out. Bring him in and let 
 me have a chat with the lad." 
 
 Vesta nodded slightly as she left the room, pleasure 
 glowing in her bright eyes. For the first time the man 
 she called father had displayed an interest in the man 
 who now commanded her affections. She hoped much 
 from their meeting on a cordial basis, and remember- 
 ing the past, amid the quiet joy Copeland's message 
 had created, there was a chilly undercurrent of fear, 
 mingled with the pleasure in her glowing mind. 
 
 Paul Copeland remained in the solitary study, alone. 
 He heard the door closed as Vesta left the house 
 and, listening, followed the movements of the only 
 domestic as she went about her work. He sat on, 
 looking absently into the fire, his face enigmatic and 
 emotionless, for the best part of half an hour. He 
 seemed to be pondering some complex problem a 
 problem without any available solution, the burden it 
 involved weighing heavily on his mind. At last, and 
 after the best part of an hour, he stirred into life 
 again. Bending over the fire, he broke up the slum- 
 bering coals until they blazed riotously. Standing, 
 his figure seemed to stiffen as if his mind had decided 
 
 20
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 definitely on some course of action. Walking to the 
 rack where the two grim revolvers hung, he took one, 
 looked along its barrel, and seemed to be sighting a 
 visible enemy. 
 
 "So the Red Colonel comes again," he said, at last. 
 "I am an old man. The end is not far. My feeble 
 life is grown too weak for fear and of such little value 
 that it demands no sacrifice for protection. If the 
 Red Colonel appear again, he will find me waiting for 
 him." 
 
 Even as he spoke the words, his attention suddenly 
 became riveted on a sound outside. 
 
 In the darkness, some one was whistling two odd 
 bars of music with shrill insistence. 
 
 Even above the wailing of the breeze, the notes 
 struck the ear with a clean-cut distinctness. At the 
 end of two bars, the whistling suddenly stopped. 
 
 Paul Copeland stood motionless, listening stood 
 until he only heard the raging of the wind. His one 
 vigilant eye showed a dilated pupil, the color of his 
 face was a shade more pale, his whitened lips trembled 
 slightly. 
 
 "The Red Colonel calls," he said slowly, the words 
 leaving his lips as if they were being choked from 
 between the clenched teeth. 
 
 After a grim interval of half a minute, the whistled 
 notes began again. Shrill and clear, they repeated 
 the same two bars of music. This time the sound ap- 
 peared to be nearer. The man responsible for the 
 fluted call might have been standing on the lawn under 
 the balcony windows. 
 
 Swaying unsteadily, Paul Copeland walked toward
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 the lamp and turned out the light. Then, clutching 
 one of the heavy revolvers, he stood in the corner of 
 the room, commanding the French windows. 
 
 The whistled notes again shrilled. When they ended 
 all was silent, save for the waxing or waning volume 
 of sound made by the breeze. Paul Copeland, listen- 
 ing intently, heard a footstep crunch on the gravel 
 path bordering the lawn and something like an ex- 
 clamation that might have been derisive laughter. 
 
 A moment later a knock sounded on the hall door. 
 
 Copeland left his corner of the dark room and 
 stood upon the landing commanding the ill-lit hall. 
 
 A servant came, grumbling, from the rear an elder- 
 ly woman of the village. 
 
 "Do not open," Copeland said, his voice low and 
 with a rasplike edge to it. "I will go down if it be- 
 comes necessary." 
 
 The servant, used to his eccentricities, crept quietly 
 back to the kitchen. 
 
 Paul Copeland remained upon the landing, clutching 
 the sinister-looking weapon he had taken from the 
 rack. 
 
 The knocking was repeated three slow, heavy 
 beats. Each one seemed to produce an echo in the 
 quiet house. The listening silence of the watching 
 man was intensified as the last echo died away. 
 
 The brass shield of a slit in the door, used for let- 
 ters, opened noisily. A hand, curiously delicate for 
 a man's, slipped halfway through the aperture. The 
 only moving thing in the brooding empty space of the 
 bare hall, it held the attention of Copeland, whose one 
 eye was fixed upon it as if the brain behind were hyp-
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 notized. The moving hand showed one marked pecu- 
 liarity. There were only three fingers upon it. The 
 fourth, or little, finger was missing. The other three, 
 lean, prehensile, were bunched together and looked like 
 talons on a fierce, predatory claw. They released 
 something gripped between the fingers and the thumb, 
 and it fell with a metallic tinkle, while a paper also 
 fluttered to the floor. The brass shield closed with a 
 snap as the hand was withdrawn. The sound of foot- 
 steps on the gravel path was again heard. After, all 
 was silent. 
 
 Down the shadowed stairs and across the half-lit 
 hall went Copeland, creeping in the fearful manner of 
 a hunted animal. He sought upon the stone floor, 
 then, with what he found, walked back to his own dark 
 study. Seated in his chair, he held out his palm to 
 catch the flickering light of the fire. 
 
 Resting in the hollow of his hand was a little red 
 cross, made of vividly enameled metal. 
 
 "The Red Colonel loses no time," he mumbled to 
 himself. "My eye was right in what I thought it saw. 
 They have tipped me the cross at last." 
 
 As he spoke, Paul Copeland turned to the slip of 
 paper. 
 
 "You may not open to the signal," were the words 
 sprawled in a handwriting as round as a schoolgirl's, 
 "but you have the sign. You will not escape from 
 the shadow of the little Red Cross again." 
 
 He read the message over twice. Then threw the 
 paper and the cross into the blazing fire.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 OUTSIDE Wayside Lodge, Vesta Copeland 
 walked rapidly toward the village, expecting 
 every moment to meet her lover, Stanley 
 Waring. 
 
 The dark road did not permit of easy recognition. 
 Eagerly as she traveled, Vesta twice quickened her 
 footsteps, believing Waring's well-known form was 
 looming in the misty night and coming toward her. 
 Twice the girl was disappointed. 
 
 The first shape, darkly outlined, proved to be a vil- 
 lager, passing home from his day's work. As he 
 slouched out of the gloom, he gave the girl a civil 
 good night, without raising his bent head. Fifty yards 
 further on, Vesta heard other footsteps. Another fig- 
 ure loomed up from the surrounding darkness and took 
 an unfamiliar shape, as it solidified into a moving patch 
 upon the dark background. 
 
 Vesta was passing the approaching man when he 
 suddenly stopped in his tracks, abreast of her. Slightly 
 startled, she eyed him closely. Indistinctly, she made 
 out that he was a big man in rough habit clad, it ap- 
 peared to her, in a tight-fitting jersey with white trous- 
 ers, and looking oddly out of place in that dark avenue. 
 He seemed a rough, lumbering fellow, and judging 
 from the sound of his footsteps was heavily shod. The 
 man's voice, when he spoke, betrayed signs of culture, 
 
 24
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 and had none of the qualities of the softly drawled 
 Buckinghamshire dialect. 
 
 "Excuse me," the man said, "but does this road lead 
 past Wayside Lodge ?" 
 
 "Yes," Vesta answered; "you are only a few yards 
 from the entrance." 
 
 "I turn there for the highway, don't I?" the stranger 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes." Vesta moved away as she replied. 
 
 "Thanks so much." As the man drawled the con- 
 ventional phrase, he raised his cap and rapidly disap- 
 peared. Vesta, walking forward, found herself remem- 
 bering in wonder and surprise the character of the 
 man's address, and his courteous salute, as small mat- 
 ters of conduct in startling contrast with his personal 
 appearance. His method of speaking and the saluta- 
 tion had the ease of a man accustomed to moving in 
 the polished world where manners count, though his 
 appearance suggested that pariah of the road the 
 bogus, crippled seafaring man. 
 
 A dozen yards further, Vesta saw a third figure com- 
 ing out of the gloom. This time her quickening steps 
 were not slowed by disappointment. A familiar shape 
 came toward her, eagerly, and with outstretched hands. 
 A voice she had learned to know called Vesta by name, 
 and, favored by the darkness, the lovers embraced. 
 
 It is not necessary to detail the most of what these 
 two young people said. They were in that magical hey- 
 day of emotion that comes, perhaps, once in a lifetime, 
 when love first unfolds, and turns the world into a song 
 of half-formed desires. They walked in the night to- 
 gether, hand in hand, and found the dark country a 
 
 25
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 garden full of light and color, scent and savor. The 
 crowded universe, peopled by millions of little lives 
 treading the limited circle of human purposes, had van- 
 ished. Life had become to them a great play in a 
 hushed theater, the whole world the stage, themselves 
 the only actors in an age-worn comedy that still re- 
 mains divine. 
 
 For some months now Stanley Waring and Vesta 
 Copeland had met almost daily in the evening hour. 
 Copeland had made no difficulties about receiving War- 
 ing, who had been to Wayside Lodge several times. 
 Both Vesta and Waring preferred this hour of their 
 meeting out of doors with the silence of the evening 
 about them that lonely atmosphere of oncoming night 
 so dear to lovers, when a thrill comes from the pressure 
 of a hand or the shy glance of a bright eye ; when the 
 language of affection expresses its adoration in halting 
 speeches, or still more eloquent silences. Their romance 
 thrived better in a free world out of doors than when 
 expressed in the frigid atmosphere of Wayside Lodge. 
 
 Stanley Waring was a young man of about twenty- 
 six years, who had just completed his professional edu- 
 cation. The son of Dr. Waring, headmaster of the 
 privately owned Kings College, Missingham, he had 
 qualified for the practice of medicine. Beyond one pro- 
 fessional journey abroad as a ship's doctor, he was 
 marking time, pending negotiations for an appointment 
 in the public services. For six months he had been 
 staying at his home, taking a share in the routine work 
 of the school by acting as temporary tutor of the sci- 
 ence classes. 
 
 Stanley Waring was a young Englishman of the pub- 
 
 26
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 lie school type, good looking in a lean, fit, rugged way 
 that suggested clean living, some natural ability, a 
 strong physique and a tenacious intellect. Looking at 
 him, one recognized the greyhound breed Waring had 
 the type of head that betrays possession of the instinct 
 for getting at the heart of a matter, and the energy to 
 reach that point in the shortest possible time. There 
 was a strange mixture of the scholar and the athlete 
 about his make-up. He appeared to be a man who had 
 read and thought much without reading and thinking 
 himself out of the world of men and into the cloistered 
 seclusion of the library. The set of the eyes and the 
 forehead above them suggested unusual will power and 
 concentration. The pronounced lean nose, high and 
 proud, gave a sharp-set quality to his face that made 
 one think of the Indian type the hunter in lonely 
 solitudes. The mouth was firm and could look grim, 
 but though slowly moved to laughter, when Stanley 
 Waring smiled his hard, determined face was lit by 
 many kindly humors and revealed another side of the 
 character of the man, who, at first sight, might have 
 appeared reserved to the point of taciturnity. 
 
 Picture him, then, as he has much to do with this 
 history, a man of lean, hard habit, of the greyhound 
 type, with a well-shaped head set on big shoulders, a 
 long body whose loose, easy carriage suggested re- 
 serves of great strength. Clad in tweeds, a soft, cloth 
 cap pulled well over his eyes, he strode along by Vesta's 
 side, a typical example of the younger breed of pro- 
 fessional man to be found working in the services in 
 every land, or idling away vacations with rod and line, 
 or gun, in the rural districts of the home country. 
 
 27
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Their jealously guarded hour had gone and they 
 were nearing Wayside Lodge. They had come by a 
 deserted field path leading into the highroad that ran 
 along the side of Copeland's lawn. They had remained 
 loitering, as lovers will, at the kissing gate joining the 
 path to the road, and between them had come one of 
 those eloquent silences that mean so much in the duo- 
 logue of the sexes, but are fatal gaps in the ordinary 
 conversations of social life. 
 
 Vesta's glance was absently searching the clouded 
 sky and Stanley Waring lingered at the girl's side, 
 content with the starlight in her eyes. 
 
 "It seems all so good, so wonderful to me," she said, 
 at last. "Always, we have been moving. I have never 
 known anyone as I know you." 
 
 He kissed the earnest face -turned toward his own. 
 
 "I cannot even tell you who I am, or what I am," 
 Vesta Copeland went on. "All I know about my- 
 self " 
 
 "As if that matters," he urged ; "as if anything mat- 
 ters save that your dear self is here." 
 
 "Yes but it does matter, in a way," Vesta went 
 on, her voice thrilling, as she heard his impetuous in- 
 terruption. "I can only remember that I was educated 
 in a convent in Germany, that my childhood seemed to 
 begin there and that he came the man I call father 
 and took me from school into the great world. And 
 after that we were always moving on. Since I left 
 the convent we seem to have been everywhere, and 
 nowhere very long." 
 
 "Well at least, you are a bewitching mystery," 
 Stanley suggested gallantly. 
 
 28
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "There you say what I know and what I always feel 
 people think about us. You have noticed it yourself," 
 Vesta suggested in a troubled voice. 
 
 "No no," he answered gaily. "I was only saying 
 what your own story seems to suggest. I was agreeing 
 with you giving you the woman's right to the last 
 word." 
 
 She smiled, ever so slightly. 
 
 "Suppose we were suddenly called away again," 
 Vesta asked, and her troubled eyes met his steady, sym- 
 pathetic gaze. 
 
 "I'd follow you to the end of the world," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 "You would not you could not," she began. "You 
 don't quite realize what our life has been. Let me 
 tell you something I would not confide in any single 
 soul. We are involved in some mystery. Light as 
 your words were, they are true in substance and in 
 fact. My father goes in terror of something happen- 
 ing that he never names. He cannot settle anywhere. 
 One day he may pick out a quiet spot, such as this 
 village is, in some remote country. There he may re- 
 main for days, or months, or even for years. Then, 
 suddenly, I feel the shadow that seemed to have lifted 
 has fallen on his life again. I know the signs only 
 too well. When they appear, we go, creeping away 
 like guilty things, shadows ourselves." 
 
 Waring looked at the girl with added interest. He 
 saw she was deeply moved, that a definite purpose was 
 impelling Vesta to the confession she was making. 
 
 "Don't think I am trying to be romantic," Vesta 
 said earnestly. "I am telling you the bare truth. I 
 
 29
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 want you to remember this if the shadow should fall 
 again. We live here, apparently rooted to the spot. 
 To-morrow we might be gone." 
 
 "You will never go from me," Stanley said, with the 
 sublime confidence of youth. "You've wandered here 
 to Missingham and to me, but I should not let you 
 wander away out of my life. Do you anticipate any 
 sudden flight, my restless bird of passage?" 
 
 "Yes," she said simply. "That is why I am telling 
 you this strange story. It is a fact in our life that 
 I cannot conceal any longer." 
 
 "You think you are likely to leave Missingham," he 
 asked urgently, now thoroughly aroused and concerned 
 by her manner. 
 
 "Yes," Vesta answered. "To-day my father be- 
 trayed signs of the return of this unrest of his dread 
 of some influence he has never outlined to me." 
 
 "But you will not go," Waring said passionately. 
 "You do not want to go?" 
 
 "No no," Vesta said, catching the urgent call of 
 his own emotions. "How can you ask that? I do not 
 want to go. In the old days, these sudden upheavals 
 were different. At least change meant the delight of 
 new surroundings a charm that appeals to youth. 
 But since I met you, dearest, it is different. I do not 
 want to move on in the old restless, furtive manner 
 again." 
 
 "Then you will not, darling," he said urgently. 
 
 "How can I help myself?" she asked. "My duty and 
 my necessity alike bind me to my father." 
 
 "Stay with me," Stanley said, warmly, and with 
 some emotion. "We have been planning, you and I, 
 
 30
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 how some day we shall marry when I can see my way 
 to ask you. Stop with me and let us marry now. 
 After all, we are young. We could rub along as lots 
 of young people must. I'm not exactly lame, halt, or 
 blind." 
 
 She stopped his rush of words, half-passionate ap- 
 peal, the rest a wild, youthful, eloquent expression of 
 his love. 
 
 "That reminds me," she said, after an interval of 
 silence. "My father was referring to you to-night be- 
 fore I left the house. He was talking of our asso- 
 ciation and asked me to bring you in. His voice and 
 manner were full of the old trouble, and, with it, I 
 believe he had been considering our present association. 
 I suppose he was thinking of the prospect of my mar- 
 riage as a new complication in our tangled lives. He 
 asked me to bring you back to the house. I think he 
 has something to say to you. Will you come in?" 
 
 Stanley Waring smiled with obvious gratification, 
 and his eagerness to comply with her request pleased 
 Vesta. 
 
 "Will I?" Stanley said, joyously. "Why, of course, 
 I'll be delighted. The fact is I have been waiting for 
 the opportunity. Candidly, Vesta, your father is some- 
 thing of a puzzle to me. He is unlike any man I ever 
 knew, and you cannot even see whether he is pleased 
 or angry when you look into his expressionless face. 
 I've hinted at my wishes time after time, since you 
 gave me hope; but he has always cut me off, kindly 
 maybe, but with a manner that dismissed the subject 
 irrevocably. I got the notion from his frigid manner 
 that Mr. Copeland did not quite approve of me." 
 
 31
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Absurd," Vesta said, all her pride in the man by 
 her side expressed in her words ; "how could he fail to 
 approve of you? There is much in our lives that I 
 do not understand that I have never really tried to 
 understand until these last months have brought you 
 to me and given another interest to my life. But, apart 
 from the shadow that drives my father on, he is both 
 just and kind just and kind in a way few men are. 
 I sometimes think this kindness and consideration for 
 others arises out of a great regret." 
 
 They were approaching the grounds of Wayside 
 Lodge, walking slowly in the silent lane, and lingering, 
 as if jealous of the swift flight of the one hour in the 
 day they had begun to call their own. 
 
 Thirty yards away from the grounds, the wind blow- 
 ing toward them, they had stood for a few minutes 
 talking with the absorbed egotism of lovers the world 
 over. 
 
 Suddenly, a new sound was added to the mild roar of 
 the gusty wind. The fury of the rising gale struck 
 the ear with less force out of doors than it did when 
 heard by Paul Copeland, as he sat crouching in his 
 study. 
 
 In the gusty burden of the wind's song, there came 
 to them a human sound the faint shrill notes of some- 
 one whistling. 
 
 Vesta Copeland listened, her face paling slightly. 
 
 They stood through another short interval of time, 
 Stanley Waring noting the concern shown by the 
 girl. 
 
 "What troubles you now, dearest?" he said, gazing 
 anxiously into the eyes looking toward him, though he 
 
 32
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 knew the thought behind them was not concerned with 
 himself. 
 
 "I thought I heard something," Vesta said, with a 
 slight shiver. 
 
 As she spoke the words, the whistled notes again 
 shrilled. They had begun to walk on, but the girl 
 stopped dead as she heard the repetition of the two 
 bars of music that were disturbing Paul Copeland. 
 
 "What is it, darling?" Waring asked, troubled by 
 her manner. 
 
 "Where did I hear those notes before, and when?" 
 Vesta muttered. As she did so, she passed her hand 
 over her eyes, the action suggesting she was trying to 
 stimulate memory itself. 
 
 "No," she said, at last. "I cannot remember." 
 
 The whistled notes were repeated for the third time, 
 as the girl stood, her hand trembling slightly in War- 
 ing's steadfast grip. 
 
 "And yet why do I recall them?" Vesta went on. 
 "Why are they so oddly familiar? Why do they fill 
 my brain with horrible thought?" 
 
 "You are overwrought, darling," Stanley suggested, 
 more and more puzzled by the girl's manner. 
 
 "I'm frightened," she answered, almost in a whisper. 
 "Don't think me foolish," she urged, "but do you never 
 hear a sound, a phrase, a voice, a scrap of melody that 
 half brings back some buried memory of childhood in 
 a blurred shape one cannot decipher ? I've heard those 
 whistled notes before. They make me think of some- 
 one dead. They make me see my father with two eyes. 
 They make me think of our first flight, terror-stricken, 
 from a strange city." 
 
 33
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Without further words, they walked on. Just as the 
 two came to the confines of the grounds of Wayside 
 Lodge, the length of the lawn dividing them from the 
 entrance gates, heavy footsteps heralded the approach 
 of someone, and, walking quickly, a man's shape 
 emerged from the shadowed road. 
 
 Vesta noted as the man passed that he was the same 
 who had accosted her when she set out to meet her 
 lover. She recalled the impression he had given her 
 of being unusual how oddly the man's manner and 
 speech had contrasted with his shambling bulk. Near- 
 ing Wayside Lodge, Vesta was dismissing this man 
 from her thoughts. He had traveled on perhaps fifteen 
 or twenty yards, when suddenly he began to whistle. 
 With mind singularly alert and clear, Vesta recog- 
 nized the notes as a fragment of an Italian opera a 
 marching chorus. Her ear caught and dwelt upon the 
 lilting of the melody with something like a chill. When 
 the man came to the last two bars of the chorus, Vesta 
 realized they were the same as the fragment she had 
 just heard the sounds that had stirred early recol- 
 lections and set dancing a series of vague, sinister, half- 
 formed pictures in her mind. The man who was pass- 
 ing down the gloomy road was the man who had thrice 
 given the fragment of a melody that seemed, even to 
 Vesta, to be in the nature of a disturbing signal.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 STANLEY WARING followed Vesta Copeland 
 into the gloomy hall of Wayside Lodge. Vesta 
 had entered by using a key she carried, and the 
 door had opened, silently. The big lobby space was 
 in almost total darkness. She turned to her lover with 
 a whispered demand for matches, and they were grop- 
 ing about for a light, when the deadly stillness was 
 broken. 
 
 "Stop," said a harsh voice, seeming at once terror- 
 stricken and threatening. "Do not advance along the 
 stairway or I'll drop you on the first step." 
 
 At the moment, and before Vesta could reply, War- 
 ing had struck a match and lighted the hall lamp. 
 
 Somewhat startled, they both looked up the stair- 
 case. A surprising sight met their astonished gaze. 
 Paul Copeland stood on the landing, peering down, his 
 one eye glittering dangerously. In his hand he held a 
 heavy revolver and the ugly weapon covered their ap- 
 proach. 
 
 When Copeland saw the new comers, he tried to 
 smile and made a curious gesture, as if by his action 
 he were trying to dissipate the strange impression his 
 appearance had created. Even as he did so, he swayed 
 dangerously, threw up his hands to his throat, plucking 
 at his own neck with the jerky gesture of a man being 
 strangled, and fell, with some violence, upon the floor. 
 
 Vesta gave a little scream, but, control asserting it- 
 
 35
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 self, she rushed up the steps, followed by Waring, him- 
 self shocked by the unusual greeting. 
 
 As they bent over the body, Vesta white to the lips 
 with fright, both thought the same thing that Paul 
 Copeland had died, suddenly, before their eyes. 
 
 Stanley's professional training quickly came to his 
 aid. With assured touch he felt the pulse and discov- 
 ered it to be beating rapidly, and weakly, but distinct 
 enough to prove that his first thought heart failure 
 was incorrect. The face was deadly pale, even when 
 compared with the normal pallor, but betrayed no other 
 disquieting signs. Deftly, Waring unloosed the collar, 
 and with practiced ease picked up Copeland, carried 
 him bodily into the study, and placed him on the camp 
 bedstead. The room was still unlighted save for the 
 dim illumination of the dancing flames within the fire- 
 place. 
 
 Waring turned to Vesta to reassure her. 
 
 "Nothing to be alarmed about," he said, earnestly. 
 "He's fainted. You may depend he will be all right in 
 a minute or two already he is beginning to stir. If 
 there is any brandy in the house, please bring it." 
 
 Vesta went for the spirit at once. She had not been 
 absent more than a minute, but when she returned her 
 father was sitting up, to all appearances himself again, 
 though his eye wandered restlessly about the room. He 
 smiled vaguely at the girl as she entered. 
 
 "I am so glad you have come back," he said, speak- 
 ing slowly. "I have been lonely and uneasy. I think 
 I must have lost my nerve. I thought of the red 
 
 He broke off suddenly, as his mind resumed its sway. 
 
 "You thought what, dear?" Vesta asked, anxiously. 
 
 36
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Paul Copeland put up a trembling hand and passed 
 the long, skinny fingers wearily over his eyes. 
 
 "I thought I don't know what I thought," he re- 
 plied. "This house is lonely. I saw some shadow of 
 evil. To-morrow, I shall leave. The place is on my 
 nerves that's it. I want new, brighter surroundings." 
 
 As he spoke, he was recovering himself and his man- 
 ner was becoming normal. 
 
 Waring and Vesta busied themselves with little details 
 for his comfort for some minutes, while Paul Cope- 
 land's eye wandered restlessly from the face of his 
 daughter to that of the man whom he knew to be her 
 lover. Several times he seemed on the point of ut- 
 tering thoughts lying uppermost in his mind. Each 
 time he appeared to check himself by a violent effort. 
 Abruptly, he made up his mind and gave a brief in- 
 struction to his daughter, asking her to prepare a 
 light supper. 
 
 "And leave me alone with Waring for half an hour," 
 he added, weakly. "There is something I want to say 
 to him." 
 
 The girl had scarcely left the room, her manner ren- 
 dered somewhat self-conscious by this request, before 
 Paul Copeland began to speak, rapidly and urgently, 
 to his young guest. 
 
 "You are a doctor, Waring, are you not?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," the other replied, watching a spasm of pain 
 reflect itself on Copeland's otherwise expressionless 
 face. 
 
 "Then would you do me a favor?" 
 
 "Certainly if it be in my power. What can I do ?" 
 
 "Sound my heart." 
 
 37
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 As Paul Copeland spoke, he bared his chest. 
 
 Stanley Waring had no instruments, but he made a 
 hasty examination by listening with his ear close to 
 the body. What he heard there surprised him. The 
 heart was laboring with a distinct murmur, and gave 
 unmistakable signs of valvular trouble. He looked at 
 Copeland, after the hasty examination, hesitatingly, 
 and could not conceal the instinctive pity rushing to 
 find expression on his clean-cut features. Copeland, 
 watching him narrowly, with his one vigilant eye, saw 
 Waring's changed expression before the younger man 
 had time to compose his features. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, breathlessly. "As I feared. Twice 
 to-day, my heart has failed me. Is it bad? Tell me 
 the truth accuracy is important to me. Is it very 
 bad?" 
 
 "Yes," Waring answered, briefly. 
 
 "Very bad eh?" Copeland asked. "Remember, it is 
 important I should know." 
 
 "Have you not suspected the trouble yourself, be- 
 fore to-day?" Waring asked. 
 
 "Yes how bad would you say I am?" Copeland an- 
 swered Waring's question with another. 
 
 "From a hasty examination, I would say your heart 
 is dangerously affected. I think you should undergo 
 treatment at once to-morrow. I would see a good 
 man, if I were you." 
 
 "Thanks, Waring" Copeland said, quietly. "What 
 have I to fear?" 
 
 Waring shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "If you press me, sir, you have to fear the worst, 
 and that, stealing upon you suddenly." 
 
 38
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Paul Copeland lay back in his chair, his eye closed, 
 his face still and impassive. He seemed to be thinking. 
 
 "Thanks," he said, at last, dismissing the matter. 
 "And now about Vesta. My daughter says you de- 
 sire my consent to your marriage," he suggested, di- 
 rectly. 
 
 The younger man's eyes gleamed eagerly. 
 
 "I have been waiting for an opportunity to tell you 
 of our plans for many weeks. It is the one desire 
 uppermost in my mind a desire, I am proud to say, 
 shared by Vesta herself." 
 
 The older man still lay back in his chair, a strangely 
 tired expression upon his face. 
 
 "I am glad of that," he said. "To-day, I thought 
 of going away. In the face of what you have told me, 
 I shall stop. You say I may die at any moment. 
 That is true true, in a sense you do not realize. I 
 have been weak how weak I cannot tell you. But I 
 have tried to see my girl, Vesta, righted. There are 
 ample means at her disposal. My life has been one 
 bitter struggle for that. Against everything I have 
 clung to the hope that I should leave her wealthy. I 
 am also glad that she has the prospect of a good man's 
 love. You will look after her, my boy eh?" 
 
 He asked the question eagerly, his strangely bright 
 eye watching the young man's face. 
 
 "I will," Waring answered with youthful confidence. 
 "But you, sir the end is not yet." 
 
 "No perhaps not," the older man said, shrugging 
 his shoulders. "The end may not be yet. But, in the 
 event of this untoward thing happening, I would like 
 to have several matters cleared up. See, my boy I 
 
 39
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 like you ; I trust you ; I, who have not trusted any man 
 or woman trust you. I want you particularly to 
 make a promise." 
 
 "Anything that would add to your peace of mind I 
 will promise," Waring said, scarcely considering his 
 words. 
 
 Paul Copeland looked at him for a moment or two 
 with a grim, speculative interest. Then he rose from 
 his seat with some difficulty, crossed the room to a 
 heavy safe, and unlocked it with a small brass key. 
 Copeland fumbled about the interior and finally with- 
 drew an envelope, made of tough, blue linen paper, 
 sealed and soiled as if the fabric were old. 
 
 "I want you to take this," he said. "I want you 
 to take it now and keep it unopened until after I am 
 dead. I want you to take it to-night. You might 
 humor me in this odd request and take this envelope 
 now, keeping it safe and unopened. Will you? I do 
 not feel safe to-night." 
 
 Waring's expression showed the puzzled thoughts 
 passing in his mind. 
 
 "Yes if you insist," he said, at last. "I'll take 
 the envelope and guard its contents. But there is no 
 immediate or special cause for anxiety so far as your 
 health is concerned. With care and proper treatment, 
 you might go on for months or years. You do not 
 fear anything to-night?" 
 
 "No if you take the papers, I shall not fear any- 
 thing, now," Copeland said. "I shall be prepared." 
 
 "For what?" asked Waring, uneasily. 
 
 Copeland shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "For any eventuality, as it may arrive. Life is an 
 40
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 uncertain affair for me, as you have just said," he 
 went on. "There is a secret in my life I should like 
 you to be the first to know in any case of emergency." 
 
 There were many questions Waring would have 
 asked, but Vesta returned at that moment and Paul 
 Copeland, his eye resting upon the girl, whose pres- 
 ence seemed to soothe him, suggested that he had said 
 all he desired to communicate to Waring and the confi- 
 dential character of the interview ended. 
 
 The older man ate a simple supper and chatted 
 easily, making light of his earlier panic. He even 
 grew animated as he talked. Into the parchment- 
 hued, shriveled features crept a hint of color. The 
 lips grew less pale. The one eye gleamed with a bright- 
 ness not wholly like the old wintry glare. Vesta re- 
 membered that her father seemed more at ease that 
 night than during any period of her knowledge of him. 
 The hour was half past ten, when Waring rose to go. 
 
 Vesta preceded him out of the room. 
 
 Some instinct bade Waring to be scrupulous in his 
 farewell perhaps Copeland's kindly manner in accept- 
 ing him as the future husband of his daughter, per- 
 haps some psychological state that responded to the 
 unusual geniality of a man who, if he had not repelled 
 Waring's advances, had certainly always been negative 
 in his attitude. Paul Copeland sat as Waring had 
 seen him often, hunched up in his chair, with an unusual 
 smile upon his withered features, an unusually kind 
 glow in his wintry, single eye. He held out a wasted 
 hand as Waring rose and looked the younger man in 
 the face, with a steadiness that had about it a quality 
 almost hypnotic. 
 
 41
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "You will be kind to Vesta," he said, slowly. 
 
 "Yes," Waring replied, buoyantly. 
 
 "And you will guard my papers until I want them 
 again? I trust you with much to-night, and they 
 may involve you in some danger." 
 
 The old man's glance was now so keen, he seemed 
 to be searching Waring's secret mind. 
 
 "Yes you will find me worthy of your trust," War- 
 ing said, with boyish eagerness. "I am not afraid of 
 danger," he added, as the significance of Copeland's 
 last phrase struck upon his mind. 
 
 "Good boy," Copeland said. "That is settled. You 
 have helped me to make up my mind. Good night." 
 
 So Waring left the strange man who had drifted 
 into his life and was to influence his future in ways 
 he did not then suspect. His last impression of Cope- 
 land was the odd thought that the grim, pallid face, 
 always reminding him of a death mask, had for the 
 first time softened and grown more human. A face 
 that had seemed to him hard, impassive, devoid of emo- 
 tion, influenced by a will within to repel advances from 
 without, had grown almost friendly. The haggard, 
 gaunt, restless, hunted expression had given place to 
 a quiet, almost gentle serenity : peace lay over features 
 unaccustomed to its softening shadow. Waring went 
 away thinking of his host as a man whose face re- 
 flected the thoughts of a warring mind brought to a 
 quiet haven, of an aged face from which the puckered 
 lines of pain had been smoothed by the magic of some 
 invisible, healing hand. 
 
 Vesta said good-bye to him in the hall a lover's 
 fluttering good-bye, in half uttered phrases, in little 
 
 42
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 sighs, and shy embraces, the characteristic endear- 
 ments of a woman proud of her surrender and reluc- 
 tant even to admit a temporary parting. 
 
 Strangely elate, very happy, Stanley Waring left 
 Wayside Lodge, a girl's laughing face glancing with 
 lingering tenderness after him as he went his way. 
 
 A man passed him on the road as he walked toward 
 the village a man who whistled softly. Only a few 
 minutes after did Waring remember that once before 
 that night he had heard the air drifting from between 
 the wayfarer's lips. Even then, so wrapt was he in 
 the dreams built out of his happy evening, he scarce 
 did more than recollect the odd coincidence. 
 
 So the night ended for Stanley Waring. 
 
 At four o'clock the next morning, a servant roused 
 him. 
 
 "Come at once," she said, as he answered the sum- 
 mons. "Some one wants you on the telephone." 
 
 He could hear the bell shrilling urgently as he came 
 to full consciousness from his slumbers. 
 
 Shivering in a dressing-gown, he took down the re- 
 ceiver. 
 
 "Oh! Stanley, Stanley, is that you?" a voice cried, 
 a voice vibrating with horror, terror and distress. 
 "This is Vesta speaking. Come at once." 
 
 "What has happened, sweetheart ?" he called back. 
 
 "Come at once," she said. "I'm sick with fear. My 
 father is dead." 
 
 "His heart ; his heart," he mumbled. "I was afraid 
 of that. I told him, even to-night, that 
 
 He broke off, frozen with horror, at the sound of 
 the waiting voice at the other end of the wire. 
 
 43
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "He has been murdered, Stanley murdered in the 
 night. In God's name come at once. I'm here alone. 
 Come by the usual road and I will meet you on the 
 way. I dare not wait for your coming in this awful 
 house."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WITHOUT any possible loss of time, Stanley 
 Waring dressed and set out for Wayside 
 Lodge. He judged it better to com- 
 mandeer the services of a bicycle standing in an 
 outhouse. Thus, before many minutes had sped, he 
 was on the road leading in the direction of Copeland's 
 residence. 
 
 With the approach of morning and the clearing of 
 the sky, the darkness had lifted. Some hundred yards 
 from the house, he made out the figure of a woman 
 coming toward him. Slowing his machine, he dis- 
 mounted and once more met Vesta Copeland where, a 
 few hours before, they had kept a tryst with all the 
 joyous zest of lovers. 
 
 Vesta had hastily dressed herself and was hurrying 
 to meet him, wrapped in a heavy dressing gown. She 
 wore no hat; her hair was in wild disorder; her eyes 
 were bright and dilated by an emotion that was obvi- 
 ously terror. When she saw Stanley, the girl threw 
 herself into her lover's arms and there for many minutes 
 she lay, her agitation so great she could scarcely give 
 a coherent account of what had occurred. 
 
 At last, gently but firmly, Stanley guided her mind 
 back to the later events of the night, and as they walked 
 toward the Lodge Vesta began to give a broken ac- 
 count of its horrors. 
 
 45
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Is there anyone in the house, now?" Stanley asked, 
 at last. 
 
 "No at least, not that I know of," Vesta replied. 
 "Our one domestic goes out at night. The whole place 
 seemed alive with terror and horror and I dared not 
 stay. I had only enough control left to call you on the 
 'phone and then I rushed out of the Lodge. I was 
 afraid of I know not what." 
 
 As they walked along, Stanley's presence seemed to 
 soothe the almost hysterical girl, and Vesta began to 
 give a clearer account of the tragedy of the 
 night. 
 
 "There was something different about our household 
 last night, even when you were there, and after you 
 had gone," she explained, though the narrative was 
 broken and often halted. "All day long my father had 
 been irritable. In the evening he talked of moving. 
 Then, if you remember, he sent for you. You recall 
 his terror when we entered how he stood in the dark, 
 commanding the stairway, with a revolver in his hand. 
 Well, after that he was unusually kind and gentle. 
 When you had left us, we remained chatting by the 
 fire until midnight. I noticed with some uneasiness, 
 because it was unusual, that his mood had changed. 
 He continued as he was when you were with him 
 more human than I have ever seen him before and his 
 talk was always of the past, never of the future. He 
 seemed to have forgotten his restless desire to move 
 on. When I rose to say good night, my father kissed 
 me, seemed loath for me to go, and talked on as if he 
 desired to detain me. He gave me the impression a 
 man might give who was in the shadow of death, and 
 
 46
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 felt, every time he closed his eyes at night, there might 
 be no to-morrow." 
 
 "Perhaps that was caused by the shock of what I 
 had to tell him last night," Stanley said, thoughtfully. 
 "While you were out, he asked me to examine his 
 heart. I was obliged to tell your father that his life 
 was in danger. His manner altered from that mo- 
 ment." 
 
 "Yes," agreed Vesta; "perhaps that was the cause, 
 but I think he knew knew of what might happen in 
 the night. When I left him, he said good night as if 
 he were saying farewell. I have never seen him in that 
 softened mood before, and I thought much of it, until 
 I fell asleep. Always, he had been a hard, unemo- 
 tional man giving no confidences and inviting none." 
 
 The girl stopped suddenly, and her manner grew 
 more agitated, as she came again to the immediate 
 events that had impressed themselves on her mind. 
 With an effort, she continued her story. 
 
 "I did not sleep very soundly in the night," Vesta 
 continued, with a shuddering sigh. "I seem to have 
 been in the state people call 'half asleep and half 
 awake. 5 I was sufficiently asleep to dream and not 
 sufficiently awake to put my dreams aside. I remember 
 dreaming of something terrible happening and all the 
 events were mixed up with a signal a whistled signal. 
 You remember the sounds I noticed, last night, as we 
 returned to the Lodge. That was the signal I heard 
 in my dreams. I do not know whether the notes were 
 real or not whether they were actually sounded out- 
 side but for a dream they were terribly real as real 
 as the whistled signal I heard last night. I remember 
 
 47
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 saying to myself that I was dreaming and making a 
 sub-conscious effort to will myself to awake and clear 
 these fancies from my restless mind, when I heard, first 
 of all, a pistol shot that must have partially aroused 
 me and then a scream of pain. I have no memory 
 of hearing such a horrible sound before and yet it 
 seemed familiar to me. Even as I awoke to complete 
 consciousness, I found myself associating that wail of 
 agony with death by violence." 
 
 Vesta's movements slowed as they neared the house 
 and she hung heavily on Stanley Waring's arm, reluc- 
 tant to approach the horrors of Wayside Lodge. Her 
 manner grew less controlled and she began to sob 
 wildly. For some minutes she could not continue her 
 narrative. 
 
 "I got up at once," she said, at last. "As quickly 
 as I could dress, I ran to my father's study. The lamp 
 was still burning. The fire was blazing in the grate. 
 My father had evidently read until late in the night and 
 kept the fire burning. The windows leading to the bal- 
 cony were wide open and the wind was stirring a litter 
 of scattered papers on the table and the floor. My 
 father lay on the camp bed and oh! Stanley, I can- 
 not go on. The sight that met my eyes was awful, 
 and for a moment I think I became unconscious." 
 
 Here Vesta, shuddering, broke down and sobbed bit- 
 terly; the re-creation of the vision of horror through 
 which she had lived proving too much for her over- 
 wrought mind. 
 
 "Spare yourself," Waring said, at last. "Here is 
 the house. I shall see for myself what happened to 
 your father. Have you sent for the police?" 
 
 48
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "No," Vesta answered. "I had only one thought, 
 dear you. When I heard your voice over the 'phone, 
 I could not endure the house any longer. I set out to 
 meet you on the road." 
 
 By this time, they were walking past the grounds of 
 Wayside Lodge. Instinctively, their voices fell as they 
 came near the house now haunted by the shadow of 
 death. Vesta seemed almost reluctant to enter her 
 home, but her lover, impetuous and determined, pressed 
 on. They found the lower rooms in darkness, but 
 Stanley quickly put a light to the lamp in the hall. 
 Leaving Vesta standing irresolute near the main en- 
 trance, he rushed up the stairs. 
 
 The familiar study, at first sight, appeared to be 
 exactly as he had left it. The light burned brightly 
 and flooded the room with illumination. Inside the 
 grate, a big fire was glowing. A kettle was singing 
 near the fire. Paul Copeland had evidently gone to 
 rest with a supply of hot grog near his elbow. With a 
 catch of the breath, Stanley realized how little the 
 scene had changed since he left a few hours before mid- 
 night. The only differences his keen eyes noted were 
 the disorderly litter of papers drifting about and the 
 lower temperature of the apartment, due to the keen 
 draughts of night air sweeping in through the wide 
 open windows. 
 
 One other difference there was. Paul Copeland re- 
 mained, lying back in the camp bedstead, the rough bed- 
 clothes about him in some disorder. In life his face 
 had seemed to be dead, but now in death it appeared 
 alive with horror. The body was raised upon the pil- 
 lows. The head was turned toward the door. Stanley 
 
 49
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Waring, for the first time, realized the shock suffered 
 by Vesta Copeland. Aroused in the middle of the right 
 to come without preparation on that still, silent hor- 
 ror, Vesta had gone through a trial that might have 
 turned her insane. Instead of being confronted with 
 Paul Copeland's face with its habitual suggestion of 
 yellowing parchment, Vesta must have seen, as Stanley 
 Waring did, that awful thing the same man's face, 
 the lean, sharp features now a dull purple, while the 
 veins on the forehead, swollen and distended, were out- 
 lined in a duller shade of the same livid hue. The one 
 eye was still open, a gap of shining terror, glazed, 
 awful in its dilated, staring concentration. The whole 
 face was instinct with the horror of a death agony, 
 sudden and overwhelming. The reflection of that ter- 
 ror in the contorted features held Waring awed and 
 inactive, and when he came to move again he felt un- 
 steady and breathed heavily as if he had been running 
 to the point of exhaustion. 
 
 Automatically, Stanley Waring seized the wrist and 
 his fingers felt for the pulse. The arm was stiff and 
 no sign of life was apparent to the touch. Standing 
 there, holding the dead man's wrist, Stanley Waring's 
 professional training prompted him to one conclu- 
 sion. 
 
 "Heart failure. A sudden seizure in the night," he 
 was murmuring to himself, when his keen, inquiring 
 eyes took in several details his first shocked glance had 
 not noted. 
 
 One arm of the dead man was hanging straight 
 down. A heavy, blue-metaled revolver, one of the 
 pair in the rack, lay upon the floor as it had fallen 
 
 50
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 there from the nerveless grip. Picking up the weapon 
 hastily, Stanley Waring saw one cartridge had been 
 discharged. 
 
 Nor was this all. There was a reason for the look 
 of horror on the dead face. Round the thin, bare neck 
 was bound a piece of wire, a thin, round, silver- 
 threaded string of the kind one sees used for the deeper 
 notes of the violin. The wire was tightly drawn about 
 the throat and knotted rudely behind the neck. War- 
 ing's alert professional eye quickly noted that this wire 
 and the manner of its use had been the cause of death. 
 No sudden seizure in the night had brought Paul Cope- 
 land to his end. He had died, strangled by a thug, 
 the bright wire round his neck a substitute for the 
 silken cord more often used in such loathsome crimes. 
 The white froth upon the lips, the purple of the swol- 
 len face, the knotted veins, all clamored out the secret 
 of that dreadful death agony. 
 
 Quickly, with the instinct of the healer, Stanley War- 
 ing unloosed the wire, but no human assistance was of 
 any avail to Paul Copeland. Though the body was 
 warm he was quite dead murdered in a manner pecu- 
 liarly merciless. 
 
 All this Stanley Waring noted in a few seconds from 
 the time he entered the room. 
 
 Suddenly, with a curdling sense of horror, he also 
 realized that the forehead of the dead man had bled. 
 
 He walked to the bathroom and returned with a 
 damp sponge. Gently, he passed it over the still fore- 
 head, furrowed as it was with the pain of the last 
 awful minutes. And, when the coagulated blood was 
 wiped away, upon the forehead was revealed a red scar. 
 
 51
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 It was such a scar as might have been made by a sharp 
 knife and possibly had been imprinted after death. 
 The form the mark took was that of a cross a little 
 red cross slashed on the furrowed temple. To Stanley 
 Waring, looking down on the still, pain-puckered face, 
 the cross suggested a vengeance. The man who had 
 strangled the life out of Paul Copeland's body had 
 marked his forehead with a sign all men could see; 
 though, looking on the ghastly symbol, the meaning of 
 the scarlet cross remained inscrutable.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE shock of the discovery prevented Stanley 
 Waring from examining the details in the room 
 likely to shed any light upon the crime. His 
 first thought, after realizing the tragedy to the full, 
 was for Vesta Copeland. 
 
 Paul Copeland lay dead, murdered by an unknown 
 hand, and nothing could be done for him. Stanley's 
 immediate duty lay with the living. He decided on re- 
 turning to Vesta at once for the purpose of offering 
 her the shelter of his own home. Immediately after, 
 he intended to seek out the one sergeant of police sta- 
 tioned in the village and to invoke his assistance in 
 clearing up the mystery. 
 
 It is not necessary to record the conversation, little 
 as it was, between the two lovers, as they left the house 
 of shadows, and in the early morning walked to the 
 residence of Dr. Waring. Horror, wonder, surprise 
 were apparent in the girl's mind. Stanley Waring's 
 desire was to soften the effects of the shock as much 
 as possible, and this he attempted to do with phrases 
 that are only full and useful coinage, likely to bring 
 ease of mind, when spoken between lovers. As they 
 walked, Vesta leaning heavily on Stanley's arm, she 
 suddenly saw the tragedy of the night as it affected 
 herself. Quietly, Vesta Copeland realized she was alone 
 in the world, without parental tie or control, and with- 
 out a relative of any kind, so far as she knew. Out of 
 
 53
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 the chaos into which her mind had been thrown emerged 
 only one fact Stanley Waring, the lover who had 
 come to her in the last few weeks, was the only person 
 she knew, with any degree of intimacy, in the world. 
 Be sure that during the journey to the Kings College 
 schoolhouse, Vesta and Stanley Waring drew nearer 
 together, in the shadow of misfortune, than they had 
 been through the months leading to the confession of 
 their love. 
 
 It did not take Stanley Waring long to rouse the 
 house, or to explain to the Doctor and Mrs. Waring 
 the needs of the situation. Dr. Waring offered to set 
 out at once for Wayside Lodge, but Stanley said that 
 he would do all that was necessary. Mrs. Waring 
 speedily did her utmost to make Vesta welcome, leaving 
 Stanley free to act at once. Mounting his bicycle 
 again, he traveled as quickly as possible to the resi- 
 dence of the police official, and was successful in finding 
 Sergeant Druce just in from night duty. 
 
 Briefly, he explained all he knew of the events of the 
 night to the surprise of the Police Sergeant, who was 
 by no means intelligent enough to realize all that was 
 being said to him. At last, however, the officer began 
 to understand that something off the beaten track of 
 crime in quiet Missingham had occurred and, if his com- 
 prehension did not cause him to act along original lines, 
 he certainly began to move according to the stereo- 
 typed police formula on such occasions. 
 
 Stanley Waring left the Sergeant to summon a 
 constable and telephone for the police doctor and other 
 interested parties. As he mounted his bicycle to ride 
 back to Wayside Lodge, Missingham began slowly to 
 
 54
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 stir to a realization of the horror that had stolen into 
 its quiet routine during the night. 
 
 Day was breaking slowly as Stanley Waring returned 
 and let himself into the residence he had known as 
 Paul Copeland's home. The quick movement in the 
 sharp morning air, the need for action, had cleared his 
 mind from the first overwhelming sense of shock and 
 revulsion of feeling. Cool and collected, he found him- 
 self eagerly dwelling on one desire the necessity of 
 making a dispassionate, analytical survey of the scene 
 of the tragedy, before representatives of the law took 
 possession. 
 
 Something like fifteen minutes elapsed before the 
 brooding quiet of Wayside Lodge was disturbed by 
 newcomers and in that brief space of time Stanley 
 Waring's keen eyes, scientifically directed by an alert 
 young mind, had observed much. 
 
 In a measure, he was able to reconstruct the crime 
 from details that remained. A decanter containing 
 spirits was near Paul Copeland. A tumbler, with a 
 spoon in it, stood on the floor at the bedside. A small 
 kettle was still steaming away near the fire. Obviously, 
 before falling to sleep, if he had slept, Paul Copeland 
 had disrobed for the night, wrapped himself in a dress- 
 ing gown, and lain in the camp bedstead, quietly drink- 
 ing at least one glass of hot spirits. The probabilities 
 to Waring' s mind were that he had fallen asleep, with- 
 out either turning out the lights or seeing to the bolts 
 of the folding doors. At all events, the folding doors 
 were wide open. There was nothing to indicate they 
 had been forced. It puzzled Stanley to know whether 
 Paul Copeland, usually so careful to protect himself 
 
 55
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 from the outside world, had opened the door after 
 retiring in answer to a summons or, with unusual care- 
 lessness, on this one night, had deliberately left his 
 room vulnerable to attack. He remembered Vesta's 
 dream and wondered if the sounds she recalled a whis- 
 tled signal had sounded in the night and caused Paul 
 Copeland to answer them. No physical signs helped 
 him in the matter. The position of the corpse on the 
 bed was such that one could not tell if Copeland had 
 arisen from his couch and been thrown back upon it, a 
 dead man, or whether he had maintained his position 
 on the bed all through the grim incidents that led to 
 his murder. 
 
 One shot had been fired. Copeland's dead face was 
 apparently looking toward the door. Really, his 
 glance was directed toward a space between the book- 
 shelves and a projecting wall, where a small safe was 
 fixed. The safe was open. Copeland had only fired 
 once, and the bullet had splintered itself in the wall, 
 breaking the paper and tearing the plaster. He had 
 hit his man, too, for there were dabs of blood near the 
 safe, upon the table, and over much of the floor blood 
 in spots and splashes, stains caused by some one bleed- 
 ing from the arm and moving rapidly. Some of the 
 splashes were trodden into shapeless smudges. That 
 was all Stanley Waring could make of the tragedy, 
 beyond the probable fact that the wounded assailant 
 had made one dash for his victim, caught him before 
 he could fire again and had ended life by winding a 
 coil of wire about the bare neck. Traces of blood upon 
 the pillow, over Copeland's shirt front and about the 
 dead man's neck, indicated the truth of this reasoning. 
 
 56
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Rapidly, Stanley Waring had noted all these points, 
 and was about to give up hope of any further reading 
 of the details likely to supply more light, when his 
 mind focused itself on the papers littered about the 
 floor. He noticed they had all been drawn from the 
 safe. There were spots and smudges of blood on many 
 of them. The documents had been opened hastily, 
 glanced at and thrown aside. Two facts emerged 
 here one object of the visit had been murder but the 
 second object was certainly not robbery, though the 
 murderer had been eager to reach the safe. 
 
 Among the loose papers were many bank notes, in 
 values ranging from five pounds to fifty pounds. Paul 
 Copeland had harbored a larger sum of paper money 
 than is usually held in private houses. Apart from 
 single notes, there were solid wads of them about the 
 floor. All had been thrown carelessly aside by the man 
 who had forced his way into Paul Copeland's study. 
 As Stanley Waring noted this, his mind, trained to 
 reason quickly, adopted the correlative suggestion that, 
 though money was not the object of the visit, the mur- 
 derer had expected to find something in the safe 
 something of sufficient import to cause him to risk his 
 life, after the committal of the major crime, in search- 
 ing among Paul Copeland's papers. 
 
 Waring was turning over some of the notes about 
 the floor and, as he did so, his mind suddenly became 
 fixed on the markings of one strip of paper lying near 
 to the safe. 
 
 In the rapid search of the safe the murderer had 
 apparently made no effort to staunch the blood flowing 
 from his wound. Waring assumed that the wound was 
 
 57
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 trivial and either in the hand, or near it, perhaps upon 
 the fleshy part of the arm. Upon one note, the kneel- 
 ing, searching figure had apparently leaned with the 
 whole hand outstretched to balance the body. 
 
 Printed on the crisp surface of a ten-pound note was 
 the outline of a human hand; the shape faintly but 
 plainly outlined in blood, though the detail, such as the 
 lines of the palm, or the print of the thumb, was 
 obscured. One obvious peculiarity was indicated by 
 the print. The hand of the murderer the hand that 
 made the impression on the note, had one finger miss- 
 ing, the little or fourth finger. While three fingers 
 were plainly indicated, the hand underneath where the 
 fourth finger should have been stopped short at the 
 fleshy pad of the palm. 
 
 Stanley Waring was examining this print intently 
 when he heard footsteps in the hall and his solitary 
 inspection of the scene of the crime ended. 
 
 Then began a wearisome process of investigation by 
 the police. 
 
 Sergeant Druce came up, mopping his brow with 
 a red pocket handkerchief. He was a burly, pink-faced 
 man, not particularly intelligent, slightly corpulent, 
 and very official. He took one glance at the room and 
 immediately sent P. C. Wiggins, the constable he had 
 brought along from his night duty, to telephone to his 
 superiors at the market town of Aylesworth. 
 
 "This," he said, with grim oracularity, "is a job for 
 the Superintendent or the Chief himself." 
 
 Then began a long process of explanation and de- 
 scription rendered all the more tedious because Ser- 
 geant Druce insisted on making elaborate entries into 
 
 58
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 an official notebook with a very stumpy pencil, the point 
 of which had to be damped between his lips every time 
 he had entered four or five words. 
 
 Dr. Lethbury, the local surgeon, examined the body 
 and confirmed the statement Stanley Waring had vol- 
 unteered as to the cause of death. 
 
 Laboriously, Sergeant Druce's mind grasped after 
 the facts. Into the official notebooks went all the visi- 
 ble details how the body appeared when he first saw 
 it, how far the couch was from the window, how far 
 the window was from the safe, how far the safe was 
 from the door, and dozens of similar exactitudes. He 
 entered up all the facts as outlined to him by Stanley 
 Waring, the doctor's opinion, when he was called, the 
 time he arrived, and who was present. The record of 
 the crime as Sergeant Druce wrote it was inter- 
 minable. 
 
 Stanley Waring soon tired of the endless question- 
 ing, particularly as Sergeant Druce, being a very hu- 
 man official and a very stupid man, not only carried 
 on his investigations in the belief that everyone who 
 had any relationship with the dead man was suspect, 
 but took but slight pains to conceal the fact. He be- 
 gan, instinctively, to treat Stanley Waring as a hostile 
 witness, who might commit himself. 
 
 When Stanley said Miss Copeland was the only other 
 person in the house at the time of the murder, and that 
 she had first sent for himself, Sergeant Druce nibbled 
 the point of his pencil and said, "Ah!" as though the 
 statement amounted to a confession of the murder it- 
 self. 
 
 "Why did she send for you?" the Sergeant asked, 
 59
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 slowly, after an interval devoted to writing down the 
 new fact. 
 
 "Because I believe I am Miss Copeland's only inti- 
 mate friend in the village," Stanley replied, frankly. 
 "I was the last person, outside the house, to see Mr. 
 Copeland alive." 
 
 "Ah !" said the Sergeant, with increased significance, 
 and laboriously he entered the words in his book. 
 
 "What is your relationship with Miss Copeland?" 
 the Sergeant asked, pointedly pursing his stout lips. 
 
 Stanley Waring's manner showed traces of annoy- 
 ance and resentment. 
 
 "Is that necessary, officer?" he asked, sternly. 
 
 "I think it will be very necessary, sooner or later," 
 the Sergeant said, with a sniff. 
 
 "Then, when it becomes necessary, I'll give all the 
 information in my power," Stanley replied, "and to the 
 proper officers. In the meantime, permit me to offer 
 you the only valuable piece of evidence available an 
 item you have overlooked." 
 
 As Stanley spoke, he picked up the ten-pound note 
 lying at the Sergeant's feet, and called his attention to 
 the detailed print of the murderer's hand. 
 
 "Ah!" said the officer, once again. 
 
 So the blundering, stupid, official-minded Sergeant 
 pursued his inquiry until the Superintendent drove up 
 to Wayside Lodge in a gig with two other officials, after 
 which the investigation was continued with more pre- 
 cision and to better purpose. 
 
 By the time they came, however, Stanley Waring had 
 been irritated by the tactless sergeant to a point that 
 made him contemptuous of the police methods. Al- 
 
 60
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 most involuntarily, the immediate business of construct- 
 ing a plausible motive for the crime had gripped him 
 with the fascination it has for minds trained to ordered 
 and logical analysis. The more the police blundered 
 along on the official humdrum lines, the keener grew 
 his desire to take a direct hand in the investigation. 
 When all the available material had been gathered at 
 the house, Stanley left Wayside Lodge for his home. 
 And only on the way to the schoolhouse did he realize, 
 with a thrill of exultation, that, almost unconsciously, 
 he had withheld one important item in his knowledge 
 of Copeland and the Wayside Lodge household the 
 package of papers entrusted to him on the evening pre- 
 ceding the crime by the man who then believed he had 
 only a few hours to live. 
 
 Outside Wayside Lodge, a crowd was assembling. 
 With the light of morning, the sinister news had 
 spread through the village, and, though there was noth- 
 ing now to see except the parts of the house visible 
 from the road, and only the wildest rumors to hear, 
 from graybeard to village boy, the residents turned up 
 and remained to discuss the mystery of Paul Copeland. 
 All they knew was that the stranger in their midst was 
 dead, and they made the most of the fact. And when 
 one comes to think of it that is all anyone knew in 
 the village, including the police, unless there lurked 
 about the quiet place the man who had made a second 
 in the chamber with Paul Copeland before the deceased 
 fell back into the sleep that knows no awakening.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 LATE on the night of the murder, Stanley Waring 
 found the necessary privacy for a careful ex- 
 amination of the papers entrusted to him by 
 Paul Copeland. 
 
 The young doctor anticipated that the blue envelope 
 would contain at least one or two illuminating side- 
 lights on the strange and ghastly occurrence at Way- 
 side Lodge, but he was scarcely prepared to find him- 
 self cast at a bound into a whirlpool of adventure 
 into the very vortex of a grotesque romance. 
 
 In these drab days, few lives are given the privilege 
 of adventure. The bell rings, the machinery clangs, 
 the overseer watches and we, bits of human machinery, 
 stand by superintending the revolutions of a limited 
 number of wheels. But here and there, one more lucky 
 than his fellows is drawn into the train of the big 
 event and, for him, life becomes a palpitating adven- 
 ture. Thus a farm hand may find himself riding the 
 tumbling sea into the unknown; a day laborer may 
 move with marching armies ; an artisan may, conceiv- 
 ably, lead a revolution. 
 
 Stanley Waring's life, to that point, had been un- 
 eventful enough. He had been brought up in the peace- 
 ful seclusion of the schoolhouse in a home not wealthy 
 though assured of a serene atmosphere of comfort, 
 evenly maintained. Years at a public school had been 
 followed by preparation for a profession. Such ad- 
 
 62
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ventures as he had enjoyed had come largely from the 
 playing fields, or out of the desultory round of country 
 sport. Life had been more or less mapped out for 
 him and his eyes were turned to a future that promised 
 to be as carefully regulated as the past. Waring 
 would go into one of the public services or, failing that, 
 into private practice. Before him stretched years de- 
 voted to the practice of medicine an unvarying rou- 
 tine, the only change likely to occur being advances 
 that might come with time in matters related to pro- 
 fessional status or prestige. 
 
 As he sat breaking the sealed envelope, Waring did 
 not realize that by tearing the tough, linenized paper 
 he was actually breaking up the even tenor of his own 
 life. 
 
 When Stanley Waring settled down in his own bed- 
 room to a leisurely perusal of the dead man's papers, 
 he was one of a thousand men destined for a profes- 
 sional career, with a limited horizon. 
 
 When the investigation had been completed, he had 
 been swept from quiet surroundings into the very cen- 
 ter of a strange drama, covering a period of a quarter 
 of a century, influencing many lives, and touching 
 events that had been, or were being, worked out with 
 half the world as a stage. 
 
 Stanley was certainly curious as he broke into the 
 bulky package, but mere curiosity ceased to be the 
 impulse keeping his mind on the subject for the better 
 part of the night. 
 
 The contents of the bulky envelope were certainly 
 very odd. 
 
 Out of the mass of papers, two items dropped to the 
 
 63
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 floor, because of their size, which had enabled them to 
 slip out of the binding red tape. 
 
 One was a slip of Bristol board, in appearance like a 
 postcard with the white surface very much thumbed 
 and soiled. 
 
 On this card was drawn a crude design apparently 
 meaningless. It is impossible to describe such a de- 
 sign, but it took up about two inches of space in the 
 center of the cardboard, and was about one inch and a 
 half deep. As nearly as the author can remember, it 
 followed closely the form of the attached reproduction. 
 
 Stanley looked at the drawing carefully, but could 
 make little of it, and the more he looked, the less inter- 
 esting it seemed to become. It might have been an 
 idle man's attempt to reproduce some shape in a room, 
 such as a panel in a door, a cornice to some piece of 
 woodwork, even a quaint specimen of oak carving. The 
 drawing might have represented something seen from 
 a window or in the street the molding over an arch- 
 way, a section of the ornamentation upon a stone pil- 
 lar, a design above a window space. It might have 
 been any of these things or none of them. The actual 
 drawing seemed the kind of thing achieved when a mo- 
 
 64
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ment of mental vacancy impels an idle hand to take a 
 pencil and attempt to outline some object familiar to 
 the eye. Underneath were roughly printed the letters 
 and numerals, Fl 3% BED RM. Into this inscrip- 
 tion, Waring could read no satisfactory meaning, 
 though his attention played round- the central group- 
 ing of characters 32 BED. 
 
 His mind, trained to the medical point of view, visu- 
 alized a numbered hospital bed, Paul Copeland lying 
 upon it, perhaps after the accident that had, among 
 other things, destroyed his eye. Waring imagined him, 
 in the days of his convalescence, testing the sight of 
 the remaining eye by attempting to reproduce some 
 decorative object, grown familiar to him by its very 
 monotony, as he lay confined in the quiet ward. 
 
 The second object was undoubtedly an unusually 
 shaped key. 
 
 This discovered a stem of thin metal and the part 
 that broadened out to fit the lock and turn it consisted 
 of two large uneven teeth. The metal was rusty and 
 had not been used, probably, for years. An odd feature 
 of this instrument was that the handle, instead of being 
 the flat, oval loop observed in most keys, to enable 
 them to be strung together, was mounted into a round 
 piece of stone, very much in the way a modern hatpin 
 joins the ornamented head or button. The handle of 
 the key was a sort of button and the top of the stone 
 reproduced exactly one of the two decorations in the 
 design upon the postcard. Thus :
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Beyond noting the similarity and wondering, if, in 
 an idle moment, Paul Copeland had attempted to carve 
 a portion of his own crude design, Stanley Waring 
 passed on to a consideration of the other papers, his 
 interest rather whetted than otherwise by the fact that 
 the dead man should have hoarded such strange trifles, 
 or attached importance to them. 
 
 A small pocket diary, for the year 1890, was among 
 the contents of the envelope. It had been freely used 
 for memoranda and evidently over many years. Thus, 
 while the year 1890 contained cryptic and apparently 
 meaningless entries, from 1891 the character of the 
 record changed, and pages were devoted to what seemed 
 to be a rough memorandum of Copeland's movements 
 about the world, down to his last journey to Missing- 
 ham. 
 
 Some of the meaningless entries may be noted by the 
 curious. They occurred in the divisions of the diary 
 allotted to each day. The entries were mostly the 
 same in character. First, there was an initial, the 
 name of a city or town, then a sum of money, followed 
 by an amount that represented about a third of the 
 preceding figures. Thus, on January 27, in 1890, was 
 the following entry: "Mrs. A., New York, 10,000. 
 3,000." Another entry would read very much in the 
 same way. "Messrs. A. & C., Chicago, 400. 100," 
 was an entry appearing late in February. These items 
 were monotonously similar in character. Where they 
 differed, the entries seemed to have a more personal 
 sound. In May appeared this entry: "K. Hotel. 
 Wise. R. departed." Another change was "Miss A. 
 Jack blew. A rum start." All the entries of this 
 
 66
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 character were of a type, evidently made in the same 
 year, and recorded under the dates associated with the 
 incidents or transactions they represented. 
 
 Another paper, much worn by being often folded, 
 carried a more definite suggestion to Stanley Waring's 
 mind. It was a rough photograph of a man's hand 
 of the type recorded by the police. The photograph 
 was unmounted and indeed, by being folded in half, was 
 practically severed into two pieces. The print, when 
 laid out flat, and joined together, showed the palm 
 and represented a long, slim hand that, hooked, might 
 have taken the shape of a claw. The lines and marks 
 on the palm and fingers were clearly shown. On the 
 back of the photograph were the words in capitals : 
 "THE RED COLONEL." There was no further ex- 
 planation of the presence of this unusual photograph 
 among the bundle of papers. 
 
 Stanley Waring was getting a trifle impatient as he 
 went through these trifles and found himself inclined 
 to look upon Paul Copeland as a madman, when he 
 thought of the concern displayed by the owner of this 
 grotesque hotch-potch of memoranda to see them in 
 the safe keeping of another person. A smile was upon 
 his features as he turned to the next set of papers, 
 which consisted of about six sheets of foolscap, neatly 
 folded. Stanley's smile was the reflex of his thoughts, 
 for, as he unfolded the crackling pages, he was really 
 wondering what further eccentric documents the dead 
 man, Copeland, had thought it worth while to hoard. 
 
 He was not left long in doubt, and he had not read 
 very far before the smile faded from his face, while the 
 close attention he displayed showed how deeply the 
 
 67
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 narrative was moving him. Indeed, he had not read 
 half a page, when, with some excitement, he stopped to 
 look over all the sheets, in doubt as to their authen- 
 ticity. Stanley noted, as he looked over the papers, 
 that the manuscript had been written at different in- 
 tervals, for the inks used were not the same, nor were 
 the sheets all of the same quality of paper. 
 
 Stanley Waring turned back to the beginning and 
 read the following statement. The text was written in 
 the characters likely to be employed by a man of some 
 education and refinement. The language used was di- 
 rect almost bald. The writer was evidently not in 
 the habit of making long statements. The baldness 
 of the phraseology enabled the reader to discover the 
 meaning of the document with the greatest ease the 
 ruggedness of the phrasing carried with it a sense of 
 conviction, deepening as Stanley Waring read on. The 
 document read as follows: 
 
 I have re-written the first page because I believe this 
 paper will fall into the hands of an honorable man. I 
 write this brief account of myself, knowing a certain fate 
 will befall me. My hope is that when the end comes I 
 shall be able to protect my step-daughter, Vesta Copeland, 
 from the consequences of her association with me. As I 
 see things now, this will fall into the hands of a man who 
 is likely to be my step-daughter's husband. It will tell him 
 much that he is entitled to know and no more. 
 
 There was a break in the manuscript here. The fore- 
 going had evidently been written within a short time 
 preceding the tragedy. The story of Copeland's life, 
 or as much of it as he chose to reveal, and as it was 
 originally written, began as follows: 
 
 68
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 My name is not Copeland. It never was. It has served 
 me as a name for twenty years or more. My real name I 
 hope will never be known. If I had to live my life over 
 again, I might be a different man. I do not know. I only 
 know what I am after I have lived my life. I am glad 
 Vesta Copeland, who has been my affectionate companion 
 for the last fifteen years, is no child of mine. She was the 
 child of the only woman I called wife by an earlier mar- 
 riage as good a woman as ever lived. I am glad no child 
 is cursed with my blood or any of the impulses that have 
 gone to make my life. 
 
 I stand in fear of death. I am one of the Red Four. If 
 that does not convey anything to the reader, all the better. 
 There are, besides myself, three surviving members of this 
 group of criminals, so far as I know the Red Colonel, the 
 Warbler and Cunning. From these three men I live in fear 
 of violence. Sooner or later I shall probably die at their 
 hands. The man I fear the most is the one-time friend and 
 partner I knew as the Red Colonel. A history of the 
 doings of the Red Four up to 1890 will account for what 
 I have been since a wanderer. The man who would know 
 the cause of my death should seek for the reason among 
 the facts made public up to the time the group was silenced, 
 and temporarily separated. I am not concerned about the 
 fates of these three men. If we meet on this earth, the 
 chances are I die. Should any man with a nose for crim- 
 inal detection seek to investigate my murder, if it occur, 
 and bring the crime, if my murder can be called a crime, 
 home to the guilty parties, he will add a remarkable chap- 
 ter to the annals of detected crime, and his achievement 
 will be a personal triumph in a field where the police of 
 half a world have failed. The man who attempts to collect 
 these laurels will only succeed after taking his life in his 
 hands and running the risk of a failure that would mean 
 certain death. 
 
 69
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 You, who read this, are warned of the danger of associa- 
 tion with me. I hold the proceeds of a dozen world-famous 
 jewel robberies. The key to their whereabouts is in this 
 envelope. The object of the Red Colonel's search is first 
 vengeance and, second, the hope of recovering a treasure I 
 have hidden the jewels, many of them historical pieces, of 
 which I could not dispose. The treasure is most likely to 
 fall to the man who has possession of the house standing 
 in the name of my step-daughter and who also holds the 
 key, as you do now. A knowledge of the possession of 
 these facts will bring the attention of the three remaining 
 members of the Red Four, and is fraught with grave dan- 
 ger to the possessor of these documents. I have never tried 
 to live within the code of any scheme of morality, but I 
 would say here, my advice to the reader of this history is 
 that he shall never seek the hiding-place of the jewels. 
 Too weak a man to give up the prospect of realizing this 
 hoarded wealth, I have found its possession a curse, bring- 
 ing me constantly in terror of death and in the end, I be- 
 lieve, face to face with the horror itself. 
 
 The object of my confession is simply this: My step- 
 daughter has interests that should be safeguarded. I owe 
 it to her devotion to make these interests secure. She owns 
 by right a small private fortune amounting to not more 
 than 10,000. It comes from her mother, is free from all 
 taint, and is invested in her name. A trusted solicitor, Mr. 
 Mark S. James, one of the few honest men I have known, 
 will give all necessary particulars. All other properties 
 apart from this estate a considerable amount are mine, 
 and may pass to the holder of this paper if he can realize 
 them. Mr. James is to be found at 14a Temple Court, 
 Lincoln's Inn. His discretion is to be relied upon. 
 
 I earnestly entreat the reader of this 
 
 The narrative was broken here. The last page of 
 70
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 foolscap showed the writing to be of recent date and 
 in the form of an addendum, revised for the personal 
 attention of Stanley Waring. 
 
 I earnestly entreat the reader of this, Stanley Waring, 
 to keep the information to himself. Vesta Copeland's pri- 
 vate fortune, such as it is, is secured to her, and the neces- 
 sary proofs of identification involve no reference to myself. 
 An attempt to secure my own revenues will involve the 
 attention of the Red Colonel and his satellites, and a pub- 
 licity that must involve Vesta in a knowledge of my career, 
 if not in actual personal danger. I offer no excuses for my 
 own share in life. What was to be has been. I have paid 
 in full. It is too late to think of repentance after what I 
 have done. To-night, I no longer fear. Nature has passed 
 sentence of death upon me. I wander no more. A day or 
 two, more or less, makes no matter. Instead of evading, I 
 voluntarily remain to meet the Red Colonel. If a red cross 
 is in any way associated with my death, the Red Colonel 
 has added one more murder to his lengthening toll on 
 human life and has also won his revenge. I still cling to 
 the secret of the missing gems with the tenacity of a man 
 who would thwart a ruthless enemy to the end. 
 
 Paul Copeland's narrative ended here. 
 
 The conclusion left Stanley Waring wandering in a 
 wide field of speculation. It kept him awake, out of 
 his bed, until the early morning. Goading him was the 
 impulse first stirred by Sergeant Druce to solve the 
 mystery of Paul Copeland's last hours for himself. 
 His knowledge of the current history of the world 
 gave color to the strange story he had read. He knew 
 sufficient of the annals of crime to realize that Paul 
 Copeland, who had died under the sign of the little 
 
 71
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 cross, in proof of the Red Colonel's lust to kill, was 
 one of the four greatest scoundrels in the world; a 
 man whose death in the rural backwater of Missingham 
 called for no human pity; a man whose life won no 
 claim to expiation, even when judged in the light of the 
 ruthless cruelty of his end.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE inquest on Paul Copeland was opened the 
 following day. Twelve good men and true, 
 but not necessarily the most intelligent of Mis- 
 singham's householders, were occupied the greater part 
 of the day in considering the circumstances surround- 
 ing the end of the occupier of Wayside Lodge. Their 
 deliberations took place in the large dining room of 
 the Black Lion. 
 
 Mr. Coroner Liptrot presided over the inquiry. He 
 was a fussy lawyer clad in farmer's tweeds, who came 
 behind a very fast trotter, from the market town. Mr. 
 Liptrot's collar, nose, complexion and manner were 
 high, and one imagined him gaining these high quali- 
 ties by systematic high living on high game, highly 
 seasoned dishes, and highly matured Stilton cheese. 
 The tender, roseate hue of his florid cheeks might have 
 been assisted by the steady development of a discrimin- 
 ating taste for any of the red wines. His method of 
 conducting the inquiry was to ask questions wholly 
 irrelevant and to fail in understanding the answers. 
 The less he understood, the wiser he looked, and this 
 atmosphere of wisdom, based on a foundation of dense 
 ignorance, had made his legal opinion valuable through 
 half an agricultural county and brought him consid- 
 erable professional emolument. 
 
 Mr. Coroner Liptrot was assisted by a slim clerk 
 who took copious notes and a stout Superintendent of 
 
 73
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Police, who barked out orders to Sergeant Druce. 
 There were also present a number of reporters, whose 
 status on the press could be deduced by their attitude 
 to the inquiry. The pale youth with the unruly hair, 
 and the kind of pimple developed by a long course of 
 totally missed or hastily bolted meals, took every word, 
 and his report ran to six columns in the county weekly. 
 The florid young men, representing the London dailies, 
 maintained a healthy contempt for the proceedings for 
 the first hour and, after, took turns in going to sleep, 
 or visiting the snuggery at the Black Lion. 
 
 For the purpose of this narrative, it is not neces- 
 sary to give so full a report as was presented by the 
 long-haired youth from the farmer's weekly. The in- 
 quest sat through the best part of the day and dis- 
 covered nothing, as is the habit of many public in- 
 quiries, held in busier centers than Missingham. It 
 heard all the facts, investigated much rumor, and con- 
 sidered a variety of theories. The result provided food 
 for a volume of hazy speculation, but it did not prove 
 more than the simple fact that Paul Copeland 
 had died, strangled by a piece of wire, "pro- 
 duced" with a sensational effect, which the reporters 
 duly noted. 
 
 Testimony of the dramatic order came with the ref- 
 erence to the note having upon it the imprint of a hand, 
 made by Sergeant Druce. 
 
 "Was this the only note?" asked the Coroner. 
 
 "No, sir," the Sergeant replied. "There were many 
 others." 
 
 "How many?" snapped Mr. Liptrot. 
 
 "To the amount of nine hundred and forty-five 
 74
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 pounds, chiefly in fifties, twenties and fives," the Ser- 
 geant replied. 
 
 "That is an unusual amount to find in a private 
 house eh ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Have you any idea why they were there?" 
 
 "No." " 
 
 "Where was this note, with the print on it, found?" 
 
 "On the floor of the study. The man apparently 
 had been wounded and was bleeding. From the posi- 
 tion of the note, he was kneeling as he searched the 
 papers and balancing himself on the hand that left the 
 stain." 
 
 The note was handed round and created some in- 
 quiry the chief source of interest being the missing 
 fourth finger. 
 
 The Coroner stated the obvious. 
 
 "I take it the note suggests to most of us that the 
 man whose left hand is outlined on it had the fourth 
 finger missing?" 
 
 "Yes," said the Sergeant. 
 
 "Has search been made in the district for a man 
 mutilated in that manner?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "With any success?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 The truth was the police had jumped at this obvi- 
 ous clue to such purpose that reports relating to people 
 who had only three fingers on one hand were pouring 
 into the country offices with a result that made the 
 chance of detecting the real criminal more difficult than 
 it was at the beginning. 
 
 75
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Vesta Copeland was the next witness called. Since 
 the shock, she had remained quietly in the home circle 
 at Dr. Waring's residence and much of her old com- 
 posure and self-control had returned. The tenderness 
 of her lover and his relations had done much to dis- 
 pel the first effects of the ordeal through which she 
 had passed. She had walked to the inquiry with Stan- 
 ley Waring and they had set out early so that the 
 journey could be lengthened. The movement through 
 the crisp air of a bright morning had braced Vesta 
 Copeland, and Stanley Waring's cheerful, vigorous per- 
 sonality had done much to take her thoughts from the 
 tragedy she had witnessed at Wayside Lodge. 
 
 She took up her position in the court, sitting near 
 the Coroner, in the chair vacated by Sergeant Druce 
 the composure of her manner being itself a tribute to 
 the physical strength underlying her apparent delicacy. 
 The face, pale when contrasted with the dark quality 
 of her hair, betrayed no tremor. Her answers to each 
 question put by the Coroner were clear and collected, 
 and her voice was well modulated; even the most com- 
 monplace sentence falling with a rounded, silvery ca- 
 dence, the beauty of sound warming the drab, frigid 
 atmosphere of the room in which the inquiry was held. 
 Stanley Waring, sitting near the entrance, never ad- 
 mired Vesta Copeland more than he did the day he saw 
 her, a center of beauty in a room and surroundings so 
 commonplace that they served to isolate and enhance 
 her charm. 
 
 Vesta Copeland gave a recital of the facts already 
 furnished to the reader, and to them she had little or 
 nothing to add. Naturally, there was a desire to see 
 
 76
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 how far she could throw any light on her father's pa^t, 
 and after she had given the unique details of her evi- 
 dence this side of the inquiry was developed by the 
 foreman of the jury. 
 
 "Have you any idea who Mr. Copeland's assailant 
 was?" the foreman asked. 
 
 "No," Vesta replied. 
 
 "Had you any reason to believe he was in any per- 
 sonal danger?" 
 
 Vesta hesitated for a moment before replying. 
 
 "Well, I had no definite reason; but there has been 
 much in our life together that I did not understand, 
 and do not even now," she said, slowly. 
 
 "Could you tell the jury any indefinite reasons you 
 might have had, associated with the safety or danger 
 of the deceased?" another juror asked. 
 
 "No beyond the fact that all the time we lived to- 
 gether he had a desire to conceal his identity 
 from strangers and frequently moved from place to 
 place." 
 
 "What reason did he give for these removals?" 
 
 "None he changed in his manner and grew rest- 
 less ; then we usually had to move on." 
 
 "How did he change?" 
 
 "Well he grew irritable and nervous. Sometimes 
 he seemed to be afraid ; at least, I thought so." 
 
 "Afraid of what?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 The foreman of the jury paused a moment. 
 
 "He never told you anything to lead you to suppose 
 he feared an attack upon himself?" 
 
 "Never he told me nothing. When I come to look 
 77
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 back, I think I know as little of my father as any 
 one." 
 
 "You don't know where he came from, for instance ?" 
 
 "No I was educated away from home. Almost my 
 earliest recollections were of the Convent. Perhaps 
 when I was fourteen I was taken to meet my father in 
 London, and beyond the fact that we had lived together 
 since until his death, I know nothing." 
 
 "Do you know whether he was in business?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Do you know where his income came from?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Pie was a wealthy man you knew that?" 
 
 "I always knew we had sufficient means for our re- 
 quirements," the girl said, somewhat curtly. 
 
 "Do you think he anticipated any danger on the 
 day or night of the murder?" the Superintendent 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes," Vesta said, after a short pause. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because his manner altered in a way I had learnt 
 to know. In the afternoon of the murder he began 
 to speak of moving away from Missingham, and in 
 the evening he betrayed what I thought were signs of 
 terror." Here Vesta Copeland recounted Paul Cope- 
 land's appearance and actions at the moment when she 
 and Waring entered the house together on the night 
 of the murder. 
 
 "He might have had a warning?" 
 
 "I would rather say he had some ground for uneasi- 
 ness in his own mind." 
 
 "He did not say what that was?" 
 
 78
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And you have no idea of any influence at work cal- 
 culated to make him uneasy?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Can you throw any light on the red cross marked 
 upon his forehead, as described by Sergeant Druce ?" 
 
 "No," replied Vesta, with a slight shudder. 
 
 Stanley Waring was called to speak of being sum- 
 moned to the Lodge and to tell his story of the dis- 
 covery of the body. He did not add anything further 
 to the details given to the police. 
 
 The Coroner questioned him closely as to his con- 
 nection with the dead man. 
 
 "You saw him alive on the night of the murder?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Yes," replied Waring. "I had a long conversation 
 with him." 
 
 "What form did it take?" 
 
 "He consulted me about his health, after the moment 
 of his collapse upon the stairs." 
 
 "Was it not good?" 
 
 "No I was obliged to tell Mr. Copeland that his 
 heart was very bad that his life hung practically by 
 a thread." 
 
 "Did that appear to distress him?" 
 
 "Not unduly he suspected the condition himself." 
 
 Superintendent Waldron gave a mass of detailed evi- 
 dence relating to the appearance of the room and the 
 effects of the dead man. He asked for time to at- 
 tempt to trace his movements and connections. He 
 spoke, too, of the gossip about Missingham relating to 
 Paul Copeland being seen in the High Street on the 
 
 79
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 morning of the murder. He had been observed to 
 stagger in the street as if taken suddenly ill. Further 
 evidence was given on this point, but beyond stating 
 that Paul Copeland was apparently distressed and en- 
 tered the Black Lion for a restorative, only one further 
 fact was germane to the inquiry. 
 
 Besides Harry Tompkinson and Tim Shepstone, the 
 village traders who had observed the incident in the 
 street, Isaac Broadleigh, the licensee of the Black Lion, 
 was called. 
 
 He added to his evidence an opinion that proved he 
 had observed the incident in the street more closely 
 than his fellows. After Broadleigh had given a state- 
 ment similar, in its general outline, to that offered by 
 the two foregoing witnesses, the Coroner asked several 
 supplementary questions. 
 
 "Tell me, Mr. Broadleigh; did you know the de- 
 ceased?'* 
 
 "No he was never in the hotel before." 
 
 "He was ill when he came in?" 
 
 "Yes he appeared to be ill." 
 
 "Did the deceased say anything?" 
 
 "He muttered something about not being well." 
 
 "Did he say anything of the character of his ill- 
 ness ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Did you form an opinion?" 
 
 "In the face of Dr. Waring's evidence, I should say 
 he had some form of heart seizure. I had the feeling 
 that he suffered a shock." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "A man passed him in the road. I was watching 
 
 80
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Mr. Copeland closely at the time, and he was nearly 
 opposite my house. He was going along all right at 
 the moment when the stranger went down the road in 
 the opposite direction." 
 
 "What happened to make you think the stranger 
 influenced him?" 
 
 "The matter is so slight," Broadleigh answered, hesi- 
 tating, "that I hardly like to offer my surmise as seri- 
 ous evidence. What really happened, as it seemed to 
 me, was that Copeland saw this man. He wheeled 
 round, apparently agitated, and then the slight seizure 
 followed." 
 
 "What opinion did you form of this incident?" 
 
 "That the seizure followed unusual agitation." 
 
 By Superintendent Waldron: "What sort of a man 
 was he who went down the street, Mr. Broadleigh?" 
 
 "Tall, stoutish, heavily built. I did not see his face. 
 He wore a jersey and white duck pants. And he had 
 only one arm, I believe. He looked to be the sort of 
 man one sees begging at fairs and race courses." 
 
 "Had you ever seen him before?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Have you ever seen him since ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Then something like a sensation was caused at an 
 inquiry which, up to this point, had gone on with mo- 
 notonous formality. Vesta Copeland suddenly rose 
 and asked if she might add to her evidence. 
 
 The Coroner blandly assented to her request. 
 
 "I only wish to state that a man answering to Mr. 
 Broadleigh's description of this stranger accosted me 
 in the lane leading past Wayside Lodge, early in the 
 
 81
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 evening of the murder," Vesta said, speaking the words 
 rapidly. 
 
 The Superintendent of the Police stiffened in his 
 manner and his gaze was fixed intently on the girl's 
 eager face, now slightly flushed. The attention of the 
 court was concentrated upon the new turn given to 
 the evidence and every eye was fixed on the girl, as she 
 answered the officer's questions. 
 
 "Did he speak to you?" 
 
 "Yes, he asked the way to the Lodge. I gathered 
 he wanted the turning for the highway." 
 
 "Did you see him again?" 
 
 "Yes an hour later, as I returned." 
 
 "Why do you recall this?" 
 
 "I was naturally startled in the first place by being 
 addressed in the darkness. Then I had the impression 
 that the manner of the man's address was much su- 
 perior to his personal appearance. Afterwards, I 
 thought it odd to see him a second time." 
 
 "Did you note anything else ?" 
 
 "Yes I had heard some one whistling, a bar or two 
 from a song, a few minutes before. The strange man 
 was whistling the same song as he passed me the last 
 time I saw him." 
 
 Stanley Waring confirmed this evidence. 
 
 So the inquest on Paul Copeland closed. In view of 
 the request for an adjournment, the inquiry was not 
 completed. The police were left to go on with the 
 investigation, and the Superintendent concentrated his 
 search for the murderer on discovering all the crippled, 
 begging sailors in his district. At the end of the week 
 many more details were added to the general stock 
 
 82
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 gathered under the direction of Coroner Liptrot, but 
 they shed no further light on the motive of the crime, 
 the mystery of the red cross, or the personalities of the 
 murdered man or his assailant. Finally, Mr. Coroner 
 Liptrot summed up, after a heavy lunch, in a drowsy 
 manner, and the jury returned a verdict to the effect 
 that deceased was wilfully murdered by some person 
 or persons unknown. 
 
 Paul Copeland was buried in the village churchyard. 
 His end was a nine days' wonder in Missingham and 
 then excitement died down, though the crime remained 
 a staple subject in village conversations for many 
 months. Gossip agreed that the inquest only deepened 
 the mystery. When public interest had died away, one 
 man only showed an increasing preoccupation with the 
 details of the crime. As the little world thought less 
 of the unsolved crime, Stanley Waring thought more. 
 The instinct of the hunter an instinct heightened by 
 the desire of his professional mind to root out morbid 
 growths impelled him to take up the loose strings only 
 in his grasp, and to see whether, in tightening them, 
 he could not enmesh the partners in Paul Copeland's 
 guilty life, who, after many years, had turned to de- 
 stroy him.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE days following the murder were anxious ones 
 for Stanley Waring. The secret gleaned from 
 the papers weighed upon him. After watching 
 the investigations of the police, he did not doubt that 
 he had taken the wiser course by maintaining silence. 
 As he read the situation, the bare publication of the 
 strange story would merely disperse and drive to cover 
 the dangerous men who had traced Paul Copeland to 
 Missingham. On the other hand, silence implied that 
 the purpose of the murder remained a secret, and the 
 probabilities were that a move on the part of the re- 
 mainder of the Red Four would be made, likely, at least, 
 to put him in touch with the personalities of the gang. 
 
 In the meantime, Stanley Waring had been tracing 
 the movements of the Red Four, as directed by Paul 
 Copeland, in the press of 1890, and had found most of 
 the details he required in a file of the Times for that 
 year. 
 
 At first, inclined to depreciate the value of the facts 
 recorded by the dead man, a most casual examination 
 of the press for 1890 convinced him of the truth of 
 the statement now so strangely in his possession, 
 through his association with Copeland. 
 
 There was no doubt the Red Four had existed and 
 that members of the partnership were still at large. 
 The year 1890 was largely concerned with their ex- 
 ploits in America, taking New York as their center of
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 crime. And, reading the record of their depredations, 
 Stanley Waring was able to trace the meaning of the 
 brief entries in Copeland's diary. They formed vir- 
 tually a history of the coups and failures of the gang, 
 during the year 1890, in America alone. Copeland 
 had put down an initial representing the name of the 
 person or company plundered; the larger amount rep- 
 resented the value of the stolen property acquired while 
 the smaller amount represented a third share of the 
 booty. The initials, localities and amounts of plunder 
 recorded in the notebook agreed with the depredations 
 as recorded in the press of that year. The only dis- 
 crepancy was Copeland's reference to the partnership 
 as the Red Four, while the booty, as apparently di- 
 vided, according to the diary, was split into thirds. 
 
 There did emerge the general facts that in 1890 this 
 gang of men represented a silently working force en- 
 gaged in skillful crime on a large scale and world-wide 
 in its operation. There were traces of the movements 
 of the Red Four in Europe London, Paris, Berlin 
 and Vienna in the year 1889, and a move had been 
 made on New York in 1890, where, apparently embol- 
 dened by success, the operations had begun on a larger 
 scale, while the plan of campaign adopted in each 
 highly organized robbery grew more ingeniously com- 
 plicated. The total amounts acquired by the gang, 
 through illegal and often violent methods, must have 
 been enormous. A clean break with 20,000 of specie 
 abstracted from a mail train was followed by a clever 
 coup that enabled the Red Four to clear out the most 
 valuable part of the stock of jewelry in possession of 
 the eminent firm of Grandways of New York. This 
 
 85
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 booty included a string of perfectly matched black 
 pearls, destined for an Indian noble, said to be valued 
 at 10,000 alone, and on exhibition in New York be- 
 fore going on its journey to the East. 
 
 A summary of the crimes showed the quartette to 
 have been concerned in dozens of burglaries and they 
 were reputed to be in possession of unnegotiable, his- 
 torical valuables notably the jewels of one of the Ger- 
 man royal houses ; the family heirlooms of the Duke of 
 Bedlington; a Rembrandt valued at 15,000, stolen 
 from the French Louvre, and a magnificent set of 
 rubies, belonging to a Turkish potentate who "missed" 
 them during an official visit to London. 
 
 For some years the four had apparently plundered 
 the Western civilization with immunity and their 
 progress through the capitals of Europe and America 
 was not only indicated by the extent of their depreda- 
 tions, but by a series of ruthless actions involving loss 
 of life. One of the worst was the creation of a panic 
 in a New York opera house, when the distracted society 
 people were plundered ruthlessly of their jewels during 
 the rush for the doors a false alarm involving a loss 
 of more than twenty lives. An isolated crime was the 
 merciless shooting of two policemen in London in the 
 open day, while the first appearance of the Red Cross 
 was the occasion when it was found slashed on the fore- 
 head of a detective, one Noel Reid, of the New York 
 Secret Service. His body was found brutally knifed 
 in an empty warehouse. 
 
 All this Stanley Waring read in the quiet library at 
 the old school-house, but the later phases of the gang, 
 outlined in many apparently unrelated paragraphs, 
 
 86
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 were difficult to follow. At some point, late in the year 
 1890, the reign of terror suddenly ended. Records of 
 crimes ascribed to the Red Colonel and his partners 
 ceased to demand attention in the press. The matter 
 became involved in an aftermath of more or less in- 
 spired journalistic conjecture. Students of crime on 
 the editorial press of New York, perhaps inspired by 
 friends in the secret services, generally agreed there had 
 been a violent quarrel and the Red Four had apparently 
 separated, leaving no trace of their partnership be- 
 hind them. 
 
 That was the position so far as Stanley Waring 
 knew it, and no fresh light was shed on the tragedy by 
 the later proceedings at the adjourned inquest. 
 
 Stanley Waring had not moved further in the mat- 
 ter and indeed, before he could do so, was faced with 
 a grave series of difficulties difficulties perhaps taking 
 an exaggerated importance in his mind, in view of his 
 relationship with Vesta Copeland. 
 
 The first question was, how far should he remain 
 silent and keep the woman he loved unaware of the hor- 
 ror lurking in the background of her life, in its sinister 
 aspects more dreadful than the shock of Copeland's 
 murder ? 
 
 Against this problem he set his own desire to take 
 up the threads Copeland's confession had unloosed, in 
 the hope of bringing the rest of the Red Four to jus- 
 tice. 
 
 Arising out of that, he had to consider, and did, 
 how far he could go in his inquiries without not only 
 forcing a knowledge of Paul Copeland's life upon his 
 stepdaughter, but bringing her actually into the dan- 
 
 87
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 gerous zone of ruthless violence surrounding Cope- 
 land's end. 
 
 Further, he had to consider his love for Vesta and the 
 prospect of life with her in peaceful channels, against a 
 task he felt would imperil the safety of his own life. 
 
 Success in the mission obviously thrust upon him by 
 Fate would solve all these difficulties ; failure Stanley 
 Waring could only guess at the possibilities waiting 
 upon Vesta and himself, if his intervention in the af- 
 fairs of the Red Four should be accompanied by a 
 weakness of action on his part or a moment's indiscre- 
 tion. 
 
 Stanley Waring gave long hours to these problems, 
 but Fate plays a bigger part in human affairs than 
 most people admit. Just as the knowledge of Cope- 
 land's life had come to him unsought, so his decision 
 in the matter of taking a hand in the investigation of 
 the mystery of Copeland's death was decided by ex- 
 ternal influence. 
 
 Two days after the adjourned inquest, one Friday in 
 the middle of November, the Black Lion Hotel had an 
 unexpected visitor. 
 
 A very fashionable motor car drew up at the door 
 about the hour of noon, and a very stately man 
 stepped out of the vehicle. The caller, after entering 
 his name in the visitors' book, took rooms for himself 
 and chauffeur and settled down to interest the whole 
 of the Missingham High Street by his occasional ap- 
 pearances. 
 
 The visitor gave a West End address, and an- 
 nounced himself by a name that had percolated even 
 down to Missingham Henry Gaythorne. 
 
 88
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 In the larger social life of London Mr. Gaythorne 
 stood for much more than was dreamed of in the 
 Missingham philosophy. Indeed, he was the center of 
 a rather brilliant social circle. Scarcely a day passed 
 without some reference being made to the personality 
 and activities of Henry Gaythorne in the daily and 
 weekly press. The public were tolerably familiar with 
 his features, for his photograph also obtained popular 
 currency. 
 
 Mr. Gaythorne was that most desirable of all social 
 personalities a bachelor of obvious wealth and of 
 American origin. He had flashed upon London three 
 years ago, and since then had been everywhere and done 
 almost everything. He had a quiet roomy house in a 
 fashionable thoroughfare, well known for its hospitali- 
 ties, grave and gay. Two exclusive clubs were glad 
 to have his name upon their list of members. Addicted 
 to the motor habit, he still found time to run a fash- 
 ionable coach, driving himself in the season. He was 
 equally well known on the turf and raced in a modest 
 way. Indeed, at the moment his name appears in this 
 story, his candidate for the Derby was fancied, if not 
 strongly supported. Mr. Gaythorne dined out per- 
 sistently; he had the knack of making attractively 
 genial after-dinner speeches with queer flashes of hu- 
 mor, of an unexpected character with a distinct appeal 
 to Americans ; he had also a trick of being a compan- 
 ionable squire of dames. 
 
 In a subdued manner, he posed as a philanthropist 
 and was believed to have an ambition in the direction 
 of politics for the better expression of his pronounced 
 views on social reform. He had given a bed to a can- 
 
 89
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 cer hospital ; a Christmas tree and fete to crippled chil- 
 dren ; and a supper to cabmen of the older type to as- 
 suage their loss of income through the advance of the 
 taxi-cab. He played a good game of billiards and 
 bridge; had a neat gift of mimicry for use at Bo- 
 hemian gatherings ; was a member of a club devoted to 
 the shooting of clay pigeons and revolver practice ; and 
 presented a very neat appearance on horseback in the 
 Row. When he posed seriously before journalists sent 
 by periodicals of the graver sort, he professed to be a 
 connoisseur of art, a collector of rare jewels, a student 
 of character and an observer of men. Generally, Gay- 
 thorne had made a niche for himself in social London, 
 was popular and had been described by such opposites 
 as a Bishop and a fashionable lightweight pugilist as 
 a real good fellow. Though about fifty, he was well- 
 preserved, and there were hopeful matrons who looked 
 upon his conversion from bachelor habits as a neces- 
 sary and possibly profitable duty. 
 
 That briefly was the history of Henry Gaythorne, 
 when he descended on Missingham. He complained, in 
 a casually genial manner, that he needed rest and quiet 
 as he was suffering from the effects of a slight accident. 
 He expected to remain in Missingham three or four 
 days, or three or four weeks. So much depended on 
 his temperament and the suitability of the place to his 
 condition. He added, as an afterthought, that he had 
 been recommended to the Black Lion by Sir Claude 
 Crispington, who owned a tolerable seat a mile or two 
 outside Missingham and never used it. After this in- 
 formation, dispersed with a ready, casual air of con- 
 descension and geniality, Gaythorne lunched in the 
 
 90
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 paneled dining-room and ordered his motor for three 
 o'clock. 
 
 At that hour the fashionable car, post office red in 
 the panels, with fawn linings to the upholstery, was 
 waiting at the door and the driver was stamping his 
 feet and blowing on his fingers as he waited on the foot- 
 path. 
 
 Henry Gaythorne, heavily clad in a fur-lined driving 
 coat, was standing on the steps leading to the hotel 
 lounge, accepting local directions from the host of the 
 Black Lion. 
 
 At that moment, Stanley Waring and Vesta Cope- 
 land passed down the village street on the same side of 
 the road. 
 
 The new visitor to the Black Lion was speaking to 
 Isaac Broadleigh, as the two passed the door of the 
 hotel. 
 
 "Thanks so much," Gaythorne was saying, drawling 
 the words in an opulent, after-lunch manner. "I shall 
 be sure to find the route interesting." 
 
 As they drew away from the hotel Vesta Copeland 
 excitedly clutched Waring's arm as if to steady her- 
 self under the influence of a sudden emotion. Some- 
 what startled by an unusual action, Stanley looked at 
 the companion walking by his side. He found definite 
 signs of agitation in Vesta's manner a subdued excite- 
 ment, expressed by the eager concentration in her eyes, 
 the dilation of the fine nostrils and the set of the lips. 
 
 "Why, sweetheart," he said, in gentle raillery ; "you 
 look as if you had seen a ghost." 
 
 "Stanley, look closely at that man in the car," Vesta 
 said, and the intensity of emotion betrayed by her voice 
 
 91
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 thrilled him. "I have heard him speak before. The 
 man who stood on the Black Lion steps thanking Mr. 
 Broadleigh was the man who thanked me for directing 
 him to the highway round Wayside Lodge the night my 
 father was murdered." 
 
 "But surely," Stanley began, "that is impossible. 
 How could you recognize him?" 
 
 "The voice, I tell you," Vesta replied, positively. 
 "He has one of the voices women cannot forget."
 
 STANLEY WARING, not wishing to excite Vesta 
 Copeland's interest in the mystery of Paul 
 Copeland's death further than events had al- 
 ready done so, deprecated the importance attached to 
 the similarity she had detected between the voice heard 
 on the night of the murder and the voice of the man 
 she had just heard speaking in front of the Black Lion 
 Hotel. 
 
 Tactfully, and with considerable tenderness, he 
 mildly ridiculed the belief Vesta had expressed, and put 
 her ready association of the two voices down to the 
 effect of the shock on the girl's nervous system. 
 
 They had walked through the village street and were 
 getting away into the quietness of the country lanes 
 before Vesta returned to the subject, but her words 
 showed how closely she had reasoned out the incident, 
 despite the attitude of her lover. Stanley, watching 
 her face and noting with a lover's eagerness the sound 
 of a familiar voice, knew that he had not in the least 
 influenced Vesta's judgment. 
 
 "Will you think it strange if I tell you something 
 that may sound rather callous ?" Vesta asked, her voice 
 showing how earnest she was in finding expression for 
 her thoughts. 
 
 "It will depend," Stanley answered. "It will depend 
 on how shocking your confession is." 
 
 93
 
 THE RED COLONEL, 
 
 "You have been telling me, in the matter-of-fact way 
 of the doctor " 
 
 "Without a practice," he urged, with a laugh. 
 
 "Yes without a practice," Vesta admitted, with a 
 grudging smile, that showed her pride in him. "With- 
 out a practice but not without a professional sense, I 
 think. Well, you were telling me about my nervous 
 system, and the shock it has had and all that. I take 
 it that I am in such a state of nerves, I must not trust 
 my own judgment is that not so, Doctor Stanley?" 
 
 "Well, yes," he admitted. "I think this tragedy 
 weighs heavily on your mind, as it does on mine, and, 
 constantly thinking about it makes one recognize all 
 sorts of odd events as bearing on the crime, though 
 they have no actual significance whatever." 
 
 Vesta Copeland laughed and the notes tinkled with 
 the hearty vibration of robust health. 
 
 "In other words, I am mad," she urged, persistently. 
 "I have the madness of obsession." 
 
 Stanley Waring hastened, by many gentle devices, to 
 disassociate himself with Vesta's extreme and drastic 
 reading of his diagnosis. 
 
 "Well, but consider, Stanley," the girl went on, ear- 
 nestly, "I am just as sane as you are. I am going to 
 confess something. I was shocked bitterly shocked 
 by the incidents of that dreadful night and morning. I 
 admit for two or three days my nerves were unstrung. 
 But, strange as it may sound, perhaps, I had not the 
 quality of affection for my father to establish the pro- 
 found emotion that leaves a permanent impression on 
 the mind suffering a sense of loss. I was shocked only 
 in the sense that some one nearly a stranger yourself, 
 
 94
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 for instance might be on suddenly coming into con- 
 tact with such a horror." 
 
 "Why do you say this?" Stanley asked, his eyes 
 fixed intently on the girl's earnest face. 
 
 "I am not quite sure," Vesta replied, seriously ; "but 
 I think, most of all, to prove to you I am sane. My 
 father came late into my life. We were almost strang- 
 ers. He was not a man who sought affection or com- 
 manded it. He told me nothing of my past nor of his 
 own. I looked to him as a natural guardian, and his 
 attitude was much the same to me. And, besides, I 
 think he liked to have me with him. But of affection, 
 of the kind that tends to great emotional distress, I 
 had none. I think I say this to prove the shock I had 
 to suffer produced only the result that comes of a 
 sudden, chilling fright. The reaction is so obvious to 
 me that the night of horror now seems a long way off 
 only a disturbing memory." 
 
 "Where does all this lead ?" Stanley asked, curiously. 
 
 "Only this far," Vesta persisted. "When I left the 
 house with you to-day I was feeling quite happy. I 
 was pleased, most of all, to be out in the fine air, walk- 
 ing with you." 
 
 Vesta pressed his arm as she spoke. 
 
 "Honestly, I had not thought of the tragedy or any 
 of its details for perhaps hours." 
 
 Stanley Waring's eyes showed that he had made a 
 quick analysis of the meaning of Vesta's words and 
 saw their drift. 
 
 "I was not thinking of Wayside Lodge, or of my 
 father, or any of the unpleasant incidents of the 
 last few days. The world was just you and I, 
 
 95
 
 THE RED COLONEL, 
 
 and I was thinking how jolly it was for both of us to 
 be in it." 
 
 She paused a moment, and Stanley Waring did not 
 break the silence. He knew exactly what Vesta Cope- 
 land was going to say. 
 
 "I had not a care in my mind, not a disquieting 
 thought, until I heard that man's voice," she persisted. 
 
 "I quite see," Waring replied. "You are fixed in 
 your belief you are sure of the association of the 
 two voices." 
 
 "Yes," Vesta said. "I want you to understand that. 
 There are some things one believes without having any- 
 thing to prove the belief without evidence, as you 
 would put it, in the grim, scientific way." 
 
 "A sort of instinctive jump at a conclusion eh?" 
 laughed Stanley. 
 
 "Call it whatever you like," Vesta said, with growing 
 seriousness. "My mind is as clear as ever it was. I 
 feel as quietly happy now as ever I did. But I know 
 beyond a possibility of error the man who spoke before 
 entering the car was in the lane leading to Wayside 
 Lodge on the night of the murder." 
 
 "Why do you say this?" Stanley asked, at last. 
 Vesta's manner was so convincing he did not now seek 
 to shake her belief. 
 
 "Because I want you to find out who that man is," 
 she answered, with quiet conviction. 
 
 They continued their walk, returning to the subject 
 once or twice, but carrying the matter no further, for 
 Stanley would not outline any of the knowledge he pos- 
 sessed knowledge, at least, making Vesta's fixed belief 
 fit the possibilities of the situation. 
 
 96
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 The light was failing as they reached Missingham 
 again and walked through the village in the direction 
 of the Waring residence. 
 
 They had finished dinner in the quiet apartment of 
 the schoolhouse. Dr. Waring had left for his study. 
 Mrs. Waring and Vesta had gone to the drawing-room. 
 Stanley lingered at the table alone, balancing a silver 
 spoon on the edge of the coffee cup. His face was 
 grim and purposeful in his expression there was some- 
 thing of the student's concentration and something of 
 the hunter's implacable eagerness or zest, strangely 
 combined. He was reviewing the odd interruption to 
 the routine of a quiet day. 
 
 "I must go to town to-morrow," he was saying to 
 himself. "I must know all Paul Copeland's solicitor is 
 prepared to tell me." 
 
 There was no apparent connection between his con- 
 clusion and his thoughts. He had been puzzling over 
 the old tangle, whether he should take up the loose 
 threads of the mystery and walk deliberately into the 
 orbit of the Red Four or remain silent in the interest 
 of Vesta's peace of mind and physical safety. 
 
 His keen, analytical mind reasoned closely. Since 
 the tragedy, instinctively the hunter in Waring had 
 bidden him to be silent, waiting for the game to make 
 the next move. He knew that, whoever the Red Colonel 
 might be, one part of the purpose of his visit to Way- 
 side Lodge had been frustrated. He guessed the noise 
 of the crime and its careless, unimaginative investiga- 
 tion by the police would drive him to earth. He felt 
 certain when Missingham was quiet again, about its 
 ordinary placid routine, unsuspicious and very unob- 
 
 97
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 servant, the Red Colonel would return. He had re- 
 mained inactive, but half unconsciously he had been 
 waiting for the game to creep once more into the 
 open. 
 
 Stanley Waring had been undecided in one matter 
 how far should he drag an old scandal into the light of 
 day and leave the influence to wrap itself, a malign 
 shadow, round Vesta Copeland's innocent personality. 
 Every instinct of prudence bade him to remain silent, 
 inactive; but the instinct of the hunter, the inborn 
 love for adventure with us all, though it may be dor- 
 mant through a lifetime, was at war with the dictates 
 of his own reason. And that afternoon he believed, 
 though he had deprecated Vesta Copeland's associa- 
 tion of the two voices, the Red Colonel had made a 
 first sign of his presence, had returned to the scene 
 of his crime, had crept from his lair into the open. 
 Vesta herself, unaware of the facts, believed this. Her 
 very words had been the voice of Fate. "I want you 
 to find out who that man is." 
 
 Unconsciously, Vesta Copeland had pointed to the 
 way the strongest impulse in his mental equipment 
 bade Waring to tread. 
 
 When he reviewed the facts in the light of the occur- 
 rence of the day, he knew the decision was out of his 
 own keeping. If he would not carry the war to the 
 Red Colonel, then the criminal would carry the battle 
 to him. The mystery that groups actors in the 
 drama of life had taken Stanley Waring up and woven 
 his personality into the fabric of crime inspired by 
 the associates of Paul Copeland. The decision Waring 
 made to visit town and carry on the first obvious inves- 
 
 98
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 tigations into Paul Copeland's private affairs was a 
 conclusion destined to reach out much further. It in- 
 volved the passing of Stanley Waring from the peace- 
 ful routine of village life into the unknown, troubled 
 circles of the world touched by the sinister movements 
 of the Red Four. 
 
 Stanley Waring rose from the table, finished his 
 coffee slowly, as he stood up and blew a cloud of cigar- 
 ette smoke into the still air of the quiet room. 
 
 "Well be it so," he said, bracing himself. "To- 
 morrow we start after the Red Colonel." 
 
 As he muttered the words the telephone bell rang 
 shrilly in the hall. 
 
 The maid who answered came toward him. 
 
 "Mr. Broadleigh of the Black Lion wants to speak 
 to you, sir," the girl said. 
 
 Stanley Waring smiled grimly as he took up the 
 receiver. 
 
 "Is that Mr. Stanley Waring Dr. Stanley War- 
 ing?" Broadleigh's voice asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'm Broadleigh of the Black Lion. Could you do 
 me a favor, sir?" 
 
 "Yes if it be in my power," Stanley answered. 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I've a Mr. Gaythorne staying here," Broadleigh's 
 voice explained through the wire. "He is a man of 
 some social importance, and I would like to oblige 
 him." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Well he's suffering from the effects of a slight 
 accident and wants to see a doctor." 
 
 99
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Stanley's square, lean jaw stiffened as he paused 
 before replying. 
 
 "Well there's Dr. Lethbury," he pointed out. "He 
 is in practice here and is the recognized man." 
 
 "Yes I know," Broadleigh answered. "I've already 
 suggested him. Mr. Gaythorne seems particular. He 
 does not trust country practitioners they get rusty, 
 he says. He wants a younger man in fact, you." 
 
 "Why me?" asked Stanley Waring. 
 
 "Well he partly suggested you," Broadleigh ex- 
 plained. 
 
 "But he could not know of me," Stanley suggested, 
 his ears intent on the answer. 
 
 Isaac Broadleigh's reply was not quite clear. 
 
 "Well perhaps I named you as being the only al- 
 ternative," he admitted. "I'm not quite sure now 
 oh, yes! Mr. Gaythorne had seen your name in a 
 report of the murder inquest that was it." 
 
 "I see," Stanley answered, slowly. "Does this man 
 Gaythorne want to see me to-night?" 
 
 "Yes as soon as you can get here." 
 
 "Very good. I'll be over at the Black Lion within 
 the hour," Stanley said, decisively, and hung up the 
 receiver. 
 
 "That settles the matter," Stanley Waring mused, 
 as he idled about the hall before rejoining his mother 
 and Vesta. "The Red Colonel has sent for me. He 
 wants to know how much I learned what knowledge 
 I conceal. In this matter of going after the Red 
 Colonel, Fate leaves me no choice. If I do not trail 
 him, it is evident he will trail me. The Red Colonel 
 is a bold enemy. He shows his hand at once." 
 
 100
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 So musing, Waring rejoined the ladies and re- 
 mained for the best part of an hour, talking with 
 unruffled calm, though his mind was a prey to an in- 
 creasing curiosity. About the hour of nine he quietly 
 left the room to meet, as he believed, the murderer 
 of Paul Copeland face to face. He did not doubt 
 even for a moment that the man Gaythorne he was 
 going to see would be the man whose voice had excited 
 Vesta Copeland's attention in the village street.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE Black Lion never housed more than twenty 
 guests under its roof for the night, even in 
 the height of summer, when Missingham drew 
 many visitors from town to idle about the green 
 countryside. 
 
 The evening Stanley Waring set out to meet Mr. 
 Gaythorne that gentleman and his servant were the 
 only visitors staying over night in the hotel. 
 
 On entering the hotel, Stanley Waring came across 
 Isaac Broadleigh lounging about the hall, and the 
 host of the Black Lion, without any preamble, took 
 Waring forward into an old-fashioned apartment, half 
 lounge and smoke room, reserved for visitors staying 
 in the house. 
 
 "This is Dr. Waring," Isaac Broadleigh said to the 
 solitary occupant, and at once left Waring alone with 
 the man who had summoned him the man Waring had 
 seen leaving the Black Lion in the afternoon. 
 
 The visitor had been lounging in front of a large 
 open fireplace where a log fire burned in the Jacobean 
 grate. He turned in his seat, with slow indifference, 
 carefully studied, Waring thought, and seemed to be 
 trying to recollect the name and the purpose of the 
 caller. 
 
 Then Gaythorne suddenly arose, with the manner 
 of a man recalling a matter of but little importance. 
 
 "Oh! yes, of course," Henry Gaythorne said. "Dr. 
 102
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Waring the young doctor. It is very good of you to 
 come; I'm almost ashamed of dragging you out into 
 the wintry darkness." 
 
 "Pray do not mention it," Stanley answered, with 
 well-simulated unconcern. "Mr. Gaythorne, I be- 
 lieve." 
 
 Stanley felt that, though the stranger greeted him 
 easily and with but a slight display of interest, he was 
 being subjected to a close, unsparing scrutiny, but 
 he betrayed no signs of consciousness of this. Indeed, 
 during the conventional preliminaries he found him- 
 self, in his turn, examining the man who had called 
 him into consultation and submitting Gaythorne's per- 
 sonal appearance to a close analysis. 
 
 Waring found himself sitting in a low lounge chair, 
 on one side of the open fireplace, opposite to Gay- 
 thorne, who reseated himself in the deep easy chair 
 from which he had risen. 
 
 Waring noticed, too, that the chair Gaythorne had 
 offered placed him in the light streaming from a big 
 hanging lamp in the center of the room, while Gay- 
 thorne, by leaning back in the hooded chair, could 
 easily throw his face into the deepest shadow. 
 
 The man opposite to Waring was obviously of the 
 cosmopolitan city type, of the type one finds lounging 
 in the hotels of every country. He was neatly dressed 
 and perfectly groomed in fashionable evening clothes. 
 From the crown of the head to the soles of his highly 
 polished slippers, the temporary guest at the Black 
 Lion was a man from the larger world. 
 
 Two facts had astonished Waring as they exchanged 
 greetings, standing up in the quiet smoke room. 
 
 103
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Though dressed in the suave habit of the evening, 
 obviously polished and well groomed, his very appear- 
 ance implying an easy life in pleasant places, under- 
 neath the sleek, well-tailored clothes Gaythorne wore 
 was a man of enormous physical activity and strength. 
 Ordinary observers would have set Gaythorne down 
 as a man slightly above the average height, and would 
 have accounted for a certain heaviness of physique 
 by describing it as mere bulkiness arising from easy 
 living. Waring, trained to use his eyes, realized the 
 seeming bulk was really a physique abnormally devel- 
 oped, the lines of an exceptionally powerful frame 
 being softened and rounded by the fashionable clothes 
 worn by the man and concealed by his lazy, almost 
 languid manner of moving. Though Gaythorne had 
 walked forward to meet Waring as though physical 
 effort were an intolerable fag, the latter knew at a 
 glance that the man's very movements were counter- 
 feit. Despite his size, Waring was sure Gaythorne 
 could move with the swift certainty of a boxer trained 
 to the hour and eager to leap forward and take advan- 
 tage of the moment an opponent left his body un- 
 guarded. His capacity for movement was only im- 
 peded by the fact that Gaythorne's left hand was ban- 
 daged and slung in a neat arm rest suspended from his 
 neck. 
 
 All this Waring noted, and more. Within the lim- 
 ited opportunity the meeting gave of realizing as much 
 of Gaythorne's life as his externals revealed, Waring 
 saw many significant characteristics in a series of 
 quick flashes of observation. 
 
 Gaythorne had offered his hand as Waring entered, 
 104
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 and the latter had taken it. Suave, friendly, non- 
 chalant, the grip of Gaythorne's hand was a revelation 
 of power suppressed and almost hidden. One thought 
 of velvet and iron at the same time. 
 
 Now they were sitting opposite to each other and 
 a waiter had brought in a tray with whiskey, tum- 
 blers and an open bottle of mineral water upon it. 
 
 Leaning back, Waring watched Gaythorne as he 
 played the host, a stream of cultured small talk bub- 
 bling from his lips. 
 
 Most of all, Stanley was impressed by the face. The 
 head on the square shoulders was a big one. The 
 lower part of the face seemed heavier than the brain 
 regions. The base of the skull was, in its turn, bigger 
 and out of all proportion to the low frontal develop- 
 ment. Short dark hair, turning to an iron gray, was 
 brushed back from the forehead. The top of the fore- 
 head, where his short hair with the backward curve 
 joined the head, took a shape and appearance that re- 
 minded the observer of the set of the short furry plum- 
 age on the hoad of a predatory bird. 
 
 The same suggestion remained as Waring surveyed 
 the face. The whole tendency of its form conveyed an 
 impression of nature at work modeling for shapes ex- 
 pressing smoothness, speed and swiftly used power. 
 The eyes were round and dark. Their pupils had a 
 solid, sharply glazed quality and a birdlike bright- 
 ness. The eyes as a whole moved restlessly, as do 
 the eyes of birds. The slow adjustment of the aver- 
 age eye to an object is carried on with a swift flash- 
 ing glance from point to point. Gaythorne's eyes did 
 more than flash they flickered. The eyeballs were 
 
 105
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 pressed low down into the bottom lids and gave a full, 
 round appearance to the shape of the sockets. 
 
 Gaythorne's face was full and fleshly. The skin was 
 pale and smooth. The forehead and cheeks presented 
 a surface like yellowing ivory, save where the skin red- 
 dened on the high cheek bones. The nose was bold but 
 finely modeled, with thin, sensitive nostrils and a high, 
 prominent bridge. The top lip was hidden by a dark, 
 crisp mustache of a texture resembling the bristles of 
 a toothbrush. The ends spread rather than pointed 
 and were trained upward. The mouth, big and ill- 
 formed, was the coarsest feature of the face and re- 
 mained slightly open even in repose. The lower lip 
 protruded and hung a little. It had the curl one sees 
 on the snarling under lip of a bulldog. The teeth 
 were big, white, highly polished, and gleamed with a 
 hint of cruelty. Even the mustaches veiling so much 
 of the lips and the sleek suavity of the shining face, 
 backed by a soft, smooth manner and a ready smile, 
 could not dispel the warning given to the observer by 
 the cruel, snarling lower lip and the big white teeth 
 gleaming in the slightly open mouth. 
 
 For the rest, Henry Gaythorne was a man whose 
 appearance did not divulge his age. He must have 
 been fifty or even five years more, but he could exert, 
 at will, a superficial charm of manner that left most 
 who met him casually in the social life of the town 
 doubtful as to what his exact age might be. 
 
 Detection of crime involves the patient acquisition 
 of proof, but, before the analytical mind establishes 
 proofs, intuition often spurs the imagination. 
 
 Waring knew, as soon as he had been with Gay- 
 106
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 thorne two minutes, that here was no ordinary man. 
 He knew that out of the whole world of men this 
 one man had come voluntarily to see him. He knew 
 life would become a running fight between them. All 
 his intuition impelled Waring to mask his thoughts, to 
 betray no consciousness of the significance of the 
 other's presence; to admit no show of interest in his 
 manner, other than the most casual professional con- 
 cern about the man who desired to consult him. 
 
 They had talked pleasant social commonplaces in 
 those early minutes. Gaythorne, spread out in an 
 easy chair, gossiped unconcernedly of the reasons 
 bringing him to Missingham. 
 
 "Six months in London on end and without change 
 fag a man to death," he was saying. "I have been 
 going everywhere and doing everything, and I've the 
 feeling a perfectly fit man gets when he trains himself 
 stale. My idea was I'd just have a quiet week or 
 ten days here, out of the hubbub an idea with which 
 my doctor agreed." 
 
 Waring listened politely and made some sympa- 
 thetic rejoinder. 
 
 "I've taken the misfortune of a little accident as 
 an excuse," Gaythorne continued, speaking carelessly, 
 though his glance was constantly hovering over War- 
 ing's impassive features. "My doctor advises that it 
 is now only a matter of dressing, which my man can 
 do, but suggests I should get a qualified man to keep 
 an eye on the wound. Just as a precaution against it 
 going the wrong way," he added. 
 
 Waring silently nodded his assent. 
 
 "That is why I have called you," Gaythorne said, 
 107
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 slowly. "I thought you might just run your experi- 
 enced eye over it. You'll see at a glance whether the 
 wound is going on all right or not." 
 
 "Perhaps you would like me to examine it now?" 
 suggested Waring. 
 
 "Yes." The other rose as he spoke and slipped off 
 his coat. 
 
 Though Waring was consumed with eagerness to see 
 that wound, his manner did not alter as he deftly cut 
 the stitches and unwrapped the bandage. The arm 
 held out steadily before Waring confirmed his first 
 belief in Gaythorne's exceptional physical power. The 
 forepart was heavy with muscle, yet seemed lean with 
 the sinewy grace of the higher class of athlete. 
 
 The bandage ran almost from the tips of the fingers 
 to the elbow. Slowly unwrapping the lint, Waring 
 knew the man standing above him as he bent to the 
 task was watching with an acuteness prompted by 
 definite purpose. 
 
 The bandage, as it was slowly unwound, revealed a 
 long jagged, superficial scar, sufficiently deep to be 
 painful, but in no way a serious injury. It had been 
 properly treated and was perfectly healthy. 
 
 "Now what should you say caused that?" Gaythorne 
 asked, mildly. 
 
 "A bullet," answered Waring, carelessly. 
 
 He felt the arm stiffen ever so slightly under his 
 touch. 
 
 "Why do you say that?" Gaythorne asked, as if 
 mildly curious. 
 
 "Well it is obviously a bullet wound," Waring 
 replied. "I cannot imagine such a wound being 
 
 108
 
 THE RED COLONEL, 
 
 caused by any other means. But it is perfectly 
 healthy." 
 
 Waring was still loosening the bandages as he spoke. 
 
 "You are satisfied about that?" Gaythorne asked. 
 
 "Yes," Waring replied, looking up to catch the rest- 
 less eyes fixed intently on him. 
 
 He turned to remove more of the bandage. 
 
 "You need not go further then," Gaythorne sug- 
 gested. "The wound is very slight from the wrist. 
 My man will dress it completely last thing to-night. 
 Just replace the bandages." 
 
 "As you please," he said, looking up again. Intui- 
 tion told him the man whose gaze was bent on himself 
 had stopped the baring of the wound to test Waring's 
 curiosity. The slight change in his voice suggested 
 some disappointment. He seemed to expect Waring to 
 be more curious. 
 
 "On second thoughts, you had better examine the 
 whole limb," Gaythorne added. 
 
 "I think your doctor would prefer me to do so," 
 Stanley Waring agreed. 
 
 Without any further remark he went on removing 
 the bandages until the whole arm was bare. 
 
 The wound on the hand, part of the same long 
 scar, evidently the path of a glancing bullet, was but 
 slight. It began at the knuckle of the third finger. 
 
 "Quite all right," Waring said, looking up again. 
 "The wound is as well as it can be and is healing 
 splendidly. Shall I bind it up?" 
 
 "Yes," Gaythorne suggested, and Waring's smooth 
 manner seemed to have placed him more at his ease. 
 
 There was no trace of disappointment, undue in- 
 
 109
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 terest, excitement or emotion in Waring's manner, but 
 as he had taken off the dressing a certainty growing 
 in his mind had been rudely proved to have no founda- 
 tion. He had expected to find a clawlike hand with 
 but three fingers beneath the swathing of the bandage. 
 The hand he found was clawlike and of ivory white- 
 ness, but it had four fingers. He knew, too, that Gay- 
 thorne had asked him to see the wound, to test how 
 far he was interested in the appearance of a man in 
 Missingham with a bullet wound on his arm, and had 
 desired as well to know whether Waring would asso- 
 ciate a bullet wound at once with a three-fingered hand 
 and betray himself by the eagerness of his manner. 
 
 Deftly, Waring redressed the hand. As he did so 
 he remarked with polite interest on the nature of the 
 wound. 
 
 "How did you come by it?" he asked. 
 
 "Ah ! I practice a lot with the revolver at the Prin- 
 ces Club," Gaythorne replied. "I had a little accident 
 through trifling with a friend. His gun went off, and, 
 if I hadn't had the luck of the devil, I should have 
 been killed instead of scarred. It was a close call." 
 
 With the same non-committal manner, Waring 
 bound up the wound and carried on a conversation 
 now reverting to general topics. 
 
 Even as he talked, his eager mind was at work grop- 
 ing for an answer to his doubts. Waring was trying 
 to reconcile the four-fingered left hand of the Red 
 Colonel with the print of the murderer's hand upon 
 the blood-stained banknote, with its missing little fin- 
 ger. Though his manner did not change, he was com- 
 pelled to acknowledge a profound sense of disappoint- 
 
 110
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ment. The fabric he had built up on Vesta's recog- 
 nition of the voice and his own hasty assumption that 
 the coincidence of the recognition with the appearance 
 in Missingham of a man with a bullet wound, who de- 
 sired to see him, must imply the appearance of the 
 Red Colonel had toppled to the ground. And yet 
 Waring was sure his meeting with Gaythorne was not 
 the mere accident that brings together a doctor and 
 a wealthy traveling patient who has been slightly 
 wounded.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 PUZZLED as Waring was by the result of his 
 examination, the intuitive reasoning bringing 
 him to believe he was in the presence of the Red 
 Colonel received some confirmation before his visit 
 ended. 
 
 While grudgingly admitting a salient peculiarity of 
 the man he had expected to see was missing, Waring 
 clung to his first fixed impression Gaythorne had sent 
 for him for purposes lying outside the question of the 
 wound. Putting Vesta's recognition side by side with 
 the fact that Gaythorne's arm was marked by a bullet 
 wound established two significant points, and there 
 was a possibility of error in the breakdown of the one 
 important clew revealed at the inquest the print of a 
 three-fingered left hand. 
 
 The main point uppermost in Waring* s mind was 
 Gaythorne had wanted to see him. He had used the 
 slight wound, now well on the way to healing, as a pre- 
 text. There was no particular reason why a strange 
 doctor should be necessary; recovery was only a mat- 
 ter of time and careful dressing. Even though Gay- 
 thorne happened to be a highly nervous patient, he 
 would have been content with the first doctor recom- 
 mended by Isaac Broadleigh, for no one with the rudi- 
 ments of medical skill could go wrong with the task of 
 passing an opinion on the progress of such a simple 
 wound. In his own mind, Stanley 'Waring still believed 
 
 112
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Gaythorne had done what Waring imagined the Red 
 Colonel as likely to do used the best available logical 
 pretext for bringing about an interview. 
 
 He had finished binding up the arm. Gaythorne re- 
 sumed his coat and carelessly placed the injured mem- 
 ber into the sling hung from his neck. 
 
 "I think you may rest easy in your mind," Waring 
 said, casually, as he stood prepared to take his depar- 
 ture. "The wound is progressing satisfactorily." 
 
 "I am greatly indebted to you for your attention," 
 Gaythorne said, with a smile. "Perhaps, as the night 
 is young, I might offer you a little further hospitality. 
 If you would care to smoke a cigar with me for an 
 hour, the advantage would be on my side. The one 
 drawback of these country hotels is they are devil- 
 ishly dull and lonely at night." 
 
 Stanley was not eager to go, but he did not desire 
 to appear eager to stay. He made some pretext of 
 having correspondence awaiting his attention. The 
 other man, with practiced geniality, overruled the ob- 
 jections as he raised them, and Waring allowed himself 
 to be persuaded. 
 
 More spirits were ordered by Gaythorne, and the 
 waiter duly appeared with cigars. The visitor to the 
 Black Lion lounged back in the same hooded chair 
 and once again, by a trick noticeable to an alert mind, 
 gave Waring no alternative but to sit with the full 
 glare of the light beating down upon his features. 
 
 Gaythorne talked well and easily on a variety of 
 subjects. He touched lightly on the interests he fol- 
 lowed in town and painted himself, by what was implied 
 in references to his own pursuits, as an easy-going 
 
 113
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 man of the world. He seemed to be talking with the 
 desire to break down the reserve between himself and 
 Waring, and the latter allowed him full play. 
 
 But Waring, listening mostly, answering as occasion 
 demanded, analyzed the lightest word as it was spoken. 
 Speedily he realized the small talk of his host only 
 paved the way to a purpose relentlessly pursued, 
 though in the most unconcerned and least obvious man- 
 ner. The circle covered by Gaythorne's talk began 
 quietly to narrow. Waring, much to his own elation 
 and amusement, found the quiet gossip by the fireside 
 of the Black Lion was progressing by easy stages 
 into a direct cross examination. The questions 
 were couched in the most delicate persiflage, but, dis- 
 guised verbally as they were in the most attractive 
 manner, they were questions all the same and went on 
 progressively. 
 
 "I guess, for a man of your parts," Gaythorne was 
 saying, "you sometimes find the country dull." 
 
 "Oh! I don't know," Waring replied, smiling. "I 
 find much of interest in this little place. Then, of 
 course, I was born in the country. Apart from that, 
 I am on a vacation, in a sense. My life will not al- 
 ways be cast in Missingham." 
 
 "You will be going into private practice eh ?" Gay- 
 thorne asked. "Well I suppose that is interesting 
 doctors see queer things. But I should think a country 
 practice is dreadfully dull." 
 
 Stanley Waring did not help Gaythorne out. 
 
 The latter wandered off again into a light discussion 
 touching upon the gaieties and fuller life of town. But 
 he came back slowly to the same point from a vivid de- 
 
 114
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 scription of a fancy dress ball and an early morning 
 Bohemian breakfast. 
 
 "I like this, you know," he said, at last, vaguely 
 waving his hand, apparently taking in the Black Lion, 
 Missingham, and the routine of the village life. "I 
 find the stillness of the country a change for a week. 
 But what you do with yourself for a year at a time in 
 such a place heaven only knows." 
 
 Waring smiled. 
 
 "We have our little excitements," was all he volun- 
 teered, but the other man clutched at the phrase so 
 quietly spoken. 
 
 Waring noted the accession of interest. It was not 
 eagerly displayed nor obvious, but Waring knew that 
 in the smooth duel of words Gaythorne had found his 
 opening. 
 
 "Ah! yes," he said, taking up the local paper, with 
 studied nonchalance. "I see you have your little ex- 
 citements. I've been reading the county news. It 
 sounds very thrilling. I see the member spoke last 
 week and the Bucks staghounds killed in Farmer Swain- 
 son's meadow nearby. And you had a circus the week 
 before, and a tea for parish mothers." 
 
 Stanley Waring permitted himself to be amused, but 
 said nothing. 
 
 "Yes and you have more than a little excitement 
 occasionally, I notice," Gaythorne was saying, his eyes 
 fixed on the paper, his face in the shadow cast by the 
 hooded chair back. 
 
 Gaythorne paused, and Waring knew he was 
 listening for the slightest change of sound in his 
 voice. 
 
 115
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "You speak of our murder?" he suggested, naturally. 
 "That is, of course, an unusual event here a nine 
 days' wonder." The words flowed smoothly from his 
 lips. 
 
 Gaythorne, in the long following pause, seemed to 
 be considering his next step in the conversation. 
 
 "I heard something about the affair in town," he 
 began, at last, speaking easily. "And I've been amus- 
 ing myself by reading the evidence in this local paper. 
 An old crony of mine, a retired Indian servant, is 
 quite a student of criminology. We often talk mur- 
 der together. He had a theory about this one. You 
 and he ought to meet you were rather intimately as- 
 sociated with the gruesome business, I read?" 
 
 His face was still in the shadow as he spoke. 
 
 "More intimately than I desire to be with any simi- 
 lar event," Stanley answered. 
 
 "You knew the murdered man Copeland?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And his daughter, Miss Copeland?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Stanley Waring purposely edged his replies with a 
 reserve that indicated the subject was more distasteful 
 to him than he really felt it to be in his own mind. He 
 gave to his staccato affirmations a grim edge that 
 made it impossible for Gaythorne to press the personal 
 side further without showing his hand. 
 
 The shadowed face moved restlessly. Stanley thought 
 there was a hint of impatience in the irritable gesture 
 accompanying the flicking of the ash from his cigar. 
 The voice was smooth and suave when it spoke again, 
 and Stanley noted the questions approached the point 
 
 116
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 he believed Gaythorne wanted to make by another 
 path. 
 
 "Yes " Gaythorne was saying. "You ought to 
 
 meet my friend Harrison. His passion is the recon- 
 struction of crime from the scant details usually in 
 the hands of the police who, by the way, do not learn 
 everything, do they?" 
 
 Gaythorne paused after his indirect question. 
 
 "There is much they have to learn about the Mis- 
 singham murder," Waring agreed, casually. 
 
 "You say that advisedly ?" asked Gaythorne, with his 
 first show of eagerness. 
 
 "No I think it is obvious," Waring said, smiling to 
 himself. "They know nothing and the whole affair 
 rests where it was at the beginning." 
 
 "You think there were elements of mystery about 
 it eh?" Gaythorne's voice still betrayed curiosity, 
 though his face remained in the shadow. 
 
 "I think there is much left to explain," Stanley re- 
 plied, indifferently. 
 
 Again Stanley noted a movement, almost impatient, 
 of the hand with the clawlike fingers. And, again baf- 
 fled, Gaythorne beat back to his original approach. 
 
 "My friend Harrison has made some wonderful 
 guesses in solving crimes from slender materials," he 
 went on. "He reconstructed the Camberwell crime be- 
 fore the police completed the case and were in a posi- 
 tion to state it in court. He has formed an interest- 
 ing theory about the crime here in Missingham, by 
 the way." 
 
 Stanley Waring yawned ever so slightly. 
 
 "Every one in the village has a theory," he allowed 
 117
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 himself to say, with just a hint of mockery in the 
 gleam of his eyes. 
 
 "Yes I know," persisted Gaythorne, his voice still 
 and smooth. "We are all amateur detectives now. But 
 Harrison's theories are worth more attention than the 
 average man's. Now, you had the opportunity of 
 seeing the tragedy down here from the inside. How 
 does this explanation of Harrison's strike you? He 
 says that in his extensive reading of criminal history 
 he has only come across the use of silver wire in 
 strangling cases in one series of murders before. There 
 were three of them in quick succession two in Eu- 
 rope and one in New York, about the year 1890. They 
 were all attributed to one gang of international crimi- 
 nals the Red Four." 
 
 Stanley Waring, listening to the quiet words, had 
 the greatest difficulty in concealing emotion as he 
 heard his own knowledge stated as a matter of casual 
 interest by the man whose shadowed face was staring 
 at his own. By an effort he controlled himself, and 
 his voice was just as monotonously tranquil as his 
 host's when he answered. 
 
 "The Red Four," he said. "I seem to have 
 heard something of them, but they were before my 
 time." 
 
 "The odd feature of every one of their crimes com- 
 mitted with the silver wire was the mark of a cross, 
 scored on the forehead of the victim. Harrison be- 
 lieves that Copeland's murder is connected with some 
 of the surviving members of the gang." 
 
 "But why?" asked Waring. 
 
 "His theory is vengeance for some wrong inflicted 
 118
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 on the rest long ago, and possibly the hope of recover- 
 ing the traces of some hidden booty." 
 
 Waring' s face did not change. 
 
 "But this old man, living out his life in a quiet vil- 
 lage " Waring began. 
 
 He was interrupted by the other man's voice, now 
 unmistakably eager. 
 
 "But you know that he was a mystery," Gaythorne 
 said. 
 
 "Yes," admitted Waring, thoughtfully. "There was 
 much I could not understand." 
 
 "Harrison says the jury did not get all the facts," 
 Gaythorne went on, speaking rapidly. "He argues 
 that either the criminals got what they wanted or the 
 police missed the significance of papers left in the dead 
 man's possession. Now, you were on the inside one 
 of the first at this house Wayside Lodge. How far 
 would that square with your knowledge ?" 
 
 Gaythorne was still maintaining his role of the de- 
 tached stranger, interested mildly in a criminal prob- 
 lem, but Waring knew every line of his face was now 
 under a deadly scrutiny. He was confirmed in his be- 
 lief that Gaythorne's visit to Missingham, his desire 
 to have his wound seen by a local doctor, the suggestion 
 of a friendly talk, all were part of an elaborate but 
 reasonable scheme for bringing about a situation that 
 would permit of the last question to be put to himself. 
 Whoever Gaythorne might be, the actual murderer or 
 one of the Red Four concerned as an accessory, his 
 mission was to examine the only man who had access 
 to Paul Copeland before and after the crime, save the 
 police who appeared on the scene after the discovery. 
 
 119
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Gaythorne wanted to judge by his manner or by any 
 word he let fall whether the missing papers had passed 
 into Waring's possession. 
 
 "Your friend Harrison's reconstruction has the merit 
 of being interesting, at all events," Waring found him- 
 self saying, with surprising indifference. "It is a 
 theory I might put to my excellent but stupid friend 
 Sergeant Druce." 
 
 "Pshaw !" said the other, now unmistakably irritated. 
 "The police! They never know; they never under- 
 stand. But you you were in this. The point is 
 was there anything worth the risk of this crime, be- 
 yond revenge?" 
 
 Gaythorne's face was still hidden in the shadow, but 
 Waring could see his white teeth gleaming, hungry 
 and expectant. 
 
 "I am afraid I have not gone into the matter as far 
 as your friend Harrison has done," Waring answered. 
 "The coincidence he states is odd very odd and the 
 matter would certainly justify investigation if such 
 proofs exist." 
 
 The interview ended there. 
 
 Gaythorne, in his role of bored hotel visitor, con- 
 versationally inclined, had made his point and asked 
 his question. Waring, still genial, in his role of visit- 
 ing doctor, helping a stranded hotel patient to pass 
 the time, believed Gaythorne had obtained no hint of 
 what he desired to know. The stranger had reached 
 a point beyond which he could not go without chal- 
 lenging suspicion by asking Waring the question in a 
 manner that would betray his personal interest. 
 
 All this Stanley Waring realized by the other's man- 
 120
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ner. Gaythorne's talk lapsed into trivialities of the 
 town and the general gossip of the day. Nor was his 
 attitude quite so cordial or interested. Waring felt 
 the pleasure of his company had not been the main- 
 spring of the conversation. The object of the meeting, 
 having been pressed to the point of failure, Gaythorne 
 had no immediate use for his guest, though they still 
 continued to chat in a friendly but desultory manner 
 before the fire. 
 
 Waring at last rose to go, and Gaythorne stood up 
 with him. He rang the bell and asked the waiter to 
 send his chauffeur. Then he remained chatting easily 
 with Waring. So closely had the latter followed his 
 host's mental processes that he knew at the moment he 
 was being detained for the inspection of the servant. 
 
 The chauffeur entered the room a little man with 
 a head close cropped and a face clean shaven. He 
 stood in the hall as the conversation between Gay- 
 thorne and Waring tailed out into a polite series of 
 parting phrases, and all the time Waring realized that 
 the servant was a man of exceptional personality, like 
 his master, and was noting every distinguishing detail 
 about the appearance of Gaythorne's guest. 
 
 When Stanley Waring left the hotel, master and 
 man went together to the lounge. 
 
 "That is the man eh?" the servant asked. 
 
 "Yes," said Gaythorne, briefly, and his curt manner 
 made a curious contrast to the suave method of ad- 
 dress employed during the past hour. "His name is 
 Stanley Waring, as you know. I want you to find out 
 all you can about him, and pass all the information on 
 to me, as quickly as you can get it." 
 
 121
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Does he know, guv'nor?" asked the second man, 
 who had none of the characteristic manners of the 
 trained servant. "Did you get anything out of him?'* 
 
 "An oyster in his shell could not have been closer," 
 snarled Gaythorne. "I cannot quite make him out. I 
 am not sure whether he is a vacant village idiot with 
 nothing to tell or whether that head of his contains 
 all we want to know. But if Copeland or his own 
 discoveries put him wise, he is dangerous, for, if he 
 has sense enough to keep his knowledge back, he knows 
 why I am here." 
 
 "If he has what we want, there'll be plenty of fight," 
 the chauffeur said, with an ugly grin. 
 
 "There will," snapped Gaythorne, showing his teeth 
 as his snarling under lip drooped. "And that's what 
 we have to find out how much this whelp does know 
 and smart is the word."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE morning after the meeting with Gaythorne, 
 Stanley Waring made his first visit to Mark S. 
 James, the solicitor of 14a Temple Court, 
 whose name appeared in Paul Copeland's papers. 
 
 Waring decided to leave Missingham by the nine 
 o'clock train, due into the Great Central Station at 
 ten-fifteen. 
 
 Since the night of Paul Copeland's murder, a great 
 change had come over Stanley Waring's outlook on 
 life. Event had followed event with startling rapidity. 
 The quiet development of his love for Vesta Copeland 
 had been rudely interrupted by the tragedy she had 
 discovered. The casual acquisition of Paul Copeland's 
 papers had suddenly made him not only the custodian 
 of a dangerous secret, but also society's instrument for 
 tracing the movements of at least three scoundrels. 
 And now he had the knowledge, gleaned overnight, that 
 he had come in direct touch with the influences operat- 
 ing to bring about Paul Copeland's end. 
 
 These thoughts were passing in Stanley Waring's 
 mind as he left the schoolhouse for the early morning 
 train. A sense of adventure, the thrill of contact with 
 the Red Colonel, had certainly given a new zest to life, 
 and in some degree had changed his attitude to it. 
 
 The secret he held had made Waring more reserved 
 in manner. He lived under a sense of being the object 
 of constantly maintained observation, though, apart 
 
 123
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 from the events of the previous day, no evidence even 
 satisfactory to his own mind proved anyone was taking 
 an unusual interest in his life outside his immediate 
 connections. 
 
 Waring had grown conscious of the necessity of 
 guarding his tongue and every action, lest a chance 
 word or gesture should betray knowledge of the grim 
 facts surrounding Paul Copeland's death. As he 
 walked rapidly to the station, Waring was conscious of 
 this change in his outlook. He felt physically nervous 
 and mentally more alert, and was particularly sus- 
 ceptible to external influences. Possession of Cope- 
 land's secret had given to Waring an alertness one 
 sees expressed oftenest in wild animals, at once hunters 
 and hunted, as they adventure forth in dangerous 
 places. 
 
 An incident marking this new quality occurred al- 
 most as soon as Stanley Waring left the house. 
 
 The road from the schoolhouse led directly to Mis- 
 singham's High Street, joining the main thoroughfare 
 at right angles. As Waring turned out of the gate 
 into the Tring Road, he noticed a man loitering at the 
 corner where the two ways joined. 
 
 In the ordinary way Waring would not have ob- 
 served the presence of a stranger. On this morning 
 his mind instantly received the impression that the 
 loiterer was Gaythorne's chauffeur. Almost as soon 
 as Waring turned out of the house into the lane lead- 
 ing to the main street, the loiterer moved casually off 
 along the High Street and out of sight. 
 
 Conscious of this fact, Waring went rapidly on his 
 way. In a few minutes he turned into the High Street, 
 
 124
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 and his first impression was confirmed. Gaythorne's 
 servant was walking slowly down the main thorough- 
 fare of the village with the lounging movements of a 
 man not particularly interested in his surroundings. 
 Waring, noting that he stopped occasionally to peer 
 into a shop window, passed the man halfway down the 
 street, without betraying any interest in his move- 
 ments. 
 
 Waring turned off for the station, and arrived there 
 three minutes before the up train was due. He had 
 taken his ticket, when Gaythorne's chauffeur turned 
 into the station, soon enough after Waring's arrival 
 to prove he had quickened up his gait directly the 
 young doctor had passed him. The man went straight 
 toward the platform, and when Waring emerged from 
 the booking office he was making a purchase of morn- 
 ing papers at the bookstall. As Waring reached the 
 bookstall, the two stood for a moment side by side, 
 Gaythorne's man fumbling for coins in a leather purse. 
 
 Waring picked up a magazine and a daily paper 
 and carelessly handed his coins to the clerk. As he 
 turned away, Waring's quick eyes gleaned a fact about 
 Gaythorne's chauffeur as important to his mind as any 
 of the startling incidents of the past few weeks. 
 
 The left hand of the stranger, clutching the leather 
 purse, was curiously fine and white for a working man's. 
 It had long, tapering, clawlike fingers the slim, pred- 
 atory fingers of the thief. But there were only three 
 of them. The fourth finger was missing. 
 
 At that moment the up train steamed in, and Stan- 
 ley Waring jumped into one of the carriages at a 
 standstill opposite to the bookstall. 
 
 125
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Out of the tail of his eyes he noted that the chauffeur, 
 after completing his purchase, turned idly from the 
 stall, looked quickly over the platform, then searched 
 the carriages immediately within the range of his vi- 
 sion, and permitted his roving glance to rest for a 
 fraction of a second on Waring's face. The eye did 
 not stop in its searching glance or indicate any sign 
 of having seen the object of its quest, but Waring 
 knew his first suspicion was right Gaythorne's man 
 had been watching him. 
 
 Stanley Waring had much to think about as the 
 train traveled swiftly toward London, and the more 
 he thought the more intricate the puzzle grew. 
 
 Gaythorne was the Red Colonel of that Stanley 
 felt assured. Gaythorne, according to Vesta, had been 
 seen in the lane near Wayside Lodge on the night of 
 Copeland's death. The Red Colonel, in Stanley War- 
 ing's eyes, was the murderer, yet the finger prints 
 showed the wounded man who had strangled Paul Cope- 
 land had a hand with only three fingers upon it. Gay- 
 thorne had the bullet wound, but his hand was not 
 mutilated. He had deliberately challenged Stanley by 
 baring the whole wounded limb. On the other hand, 
 the chauffeur possessed a mutilated hand, but no bul- 
 let wound. Here was a contradiction on a matter 
 of fact that Waring strove to reconcile as the 
 train tore onward to London, but his mind had not 
 solved the riddle when his carriage drew up at the 
 terminus. 
 
 Waring's destination was Fleet Street, and on that 
 journey he caught himself wondering whether he was 
 unduly sensitive to external impressions whether, in- 
 
 126
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 deed, the alert quality of his mind did not reveal a mere 
 tendency to nerves hypersensitively jumpy. 
 
 At first he only noted a well-dressed stranger stand- 
 ing at the exit at Marylebone, reading a sporting 
 paper. The man was ostentatiously well dressed in 
 dark, close-fitting frock coat and light trousers the 
 silk hat upon his head was newly ironed. His face was 
 dark, Italian in character, with a big, curved nose dis- 
 tinctly Jewish in type. Stanley Waring's eye rested 
 on this man casually, simply noting him in passing as 
 a personality of unusual appearance and of a charac- 
 ter marking him out from his fellows. 
 
 His interest grew less casual when he found the same 
 man in the tube lift, taking the same underground 
 train, but even then Waring did not associate him in 
 any way with his own affairs. 
 
 Stanley had made the journey to Charing Cross and 
 had taken a bus to the Chancery Lane end of Fleet 
 Street, as being the nearest point to his destination. 
 He had ridden on the top of the bus and dropped off 
 the footboard of the vehicle as it swung along the 
 street and passed the entrance to the Temple. 
 
 Waring*s attention was riveted, however, at once 
 as he stood hesitating on the pavement, for the same 
 bus suddenly stopped and the man he had seen twice 
 before since he arrived at Marylebone station got 
 quickly off the footboard. 
 
 Waring's swift, instant impression was that the dark 
 man with the Italian features and the prominent nose 
 was following him. Stanley realized this with a gasp 
 of astonishment. His mind had been far from the 
 thought that the net into which he had begun to stray 
 
 127
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 could weave its meshes about him, even as he stood, 
 a stranger, in a London street. It comes as a shock 
 to a perfectly innocent man to feel his movements are 
 under close and persistent scrutiny, and Stanley, for a 
 moment, had the panic-stricken belief that London was 
 policed by men who were tools of the Red Colonel. 
 The mere suspicion that he could be placed under 
 observation in Fleet Street so easily gave Stanley War- 
 ing a new respect for the Red Colonel, and served as 
 another reminder of the necessity of being wary of 
 every step he took in trying to bring about his fall. 
 
 To make sure his surmise was correct, Stanley War- 
 ing idled about Fleet Street. He saw that, when he 
 stopped, the stranger stopped, too. When Stanley 
 betrayed absorption in the exhibits in a picture dealer's 
 window, the other man stopped, apparently excited by 
 the advertisements in a daily newspaper displayed 
 three shops further away. Waring entered a tobacco 
 store and made several purchases. He dawdled over 
 his selection of cigarettes and a pipe purposely, talk- 
 ing freely with the shopman. Some minutes elapsed 
 before he left the tobacconist's, but the man who had 
 shadowed him from Marylebone was still near, looking 
 persistently into the window of the next shop. 
 
 Then Stanley had something in the nature of an 
 inspiration. 
 
 He decided to go about his business as if he had no 
 suspicion of the observation of the man at his heels. 
 He turned slowly from the shop he had left and 
 plunged through one of the by-paths in Fleet Street 
 until he came to Temple Court, a narrow thoroughfare 
 of old-fashioned houses, just outside one of the Temple 
 
 128
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Gates. No. 14a was a double-fronted building with 
 four floors. On either side of the door was a long 
 list of firms occupying offices on the various floors. 
 Stanley smiled to himself as he wondered how the man 
 who shadowed him would find out the name of the firm 
 he was visiting. He had yet to learn the extent of 
 the Red Colonel's knowledge or his resources. 
 
 Without looking back, Stanley Waring walked into 
 the building, his quick eye noting that "Mark S. James, 
 Solicitor and Commissioner of Oaths" appeared in a 
 list of occupants of suites on the second floor. He 
 turned to the stairway and soon found the address he 
 wanted. Tapping on the doorway, Waring entered 
 the outer office, and a boy took in his card. 
 
 After an interval of about two minutes a door opened 
 near Waring and an elderly man stood, calling upon 
 him to enter. 
 
 Waring followed the beckoning figure, and found 
 himself entering the office of Mr. James. 
 
 Paul Copeland's solicitor was a spare man of per- 
 haps fifty years of age. Slightly above the average in 
 height, he stooped a little in the manner of a man 
 who spends much time at the desk. He was neatly 
 dressed in the professional habit of another generation 
 his black frock coat tightly buttoned and fitting his 
 figure, his linen collar cut low, the folds of a rusty 
 black tie being drawn together through a gold ring. 
 Mr. James was of the race of grave men one asso- 
 ciates only with the law. His face was long, lean and 
 white. His eyes were bright and shrewd, and peered 
 from behind gold-rimmed spectacles. His mouth had 
 a certain air of prim determination indicating that 
 
 129
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 the man could be obstinate if he chose. His hair was 
 light colored and closely cropped, while it had thinned 
 out into bald patches. Mr. James worked in a large 
 somber room, typical of the lawyer. His big desk in 
 the center was littered with papers. Round one wall 
 ran wooden shelves fitted with musty textbooks. A big 
 safe glowered beside the fireplace and behind James 
 when he was working. Piled up against the other 
 walls were rows and rows of black japanned deed boxes, 
 with the names of clients painted on them in white 
 lettering. A few shabby leather chairs completed the 
 furnishing of the room. Although the apartment was 
 to the front and looked down upon the open street, it 
 had that atmosphere of dust and gloom, a settled air 
 of melancholy, only found in the lawyer's office of con- 
 siderable standing. 
 
 "Mr. er Waring?" the solicitor said, looking from 
 the card to his visitor. 
 
 "Yes Mr. James, I presume," Waring added. 
 
 "I have not the er pleasure of knowing " Mr. 
 
 James began, doubtfully, and then broke off again. 
 "Tut, tut! where are my wits. Your name is familiar. 
 Now I remember. If you are Waring, you were con- 
 cerned with the death of Paul Copeland." 
 
 "Yes," Stanley said, earnestly; "I came to see you 
 by his direction about Miss Vesta Copeland's affairs." 
 
 The other eyed him narrowly for some seconds. 
 
 "To be sure," he said, at last, his lips tight and 
 prim. "I was expecting you." 
 
 The announcement of Stanley Waring's business pro- 
 duced an extraordinary effect on the elderly lawyer. 
 He went to the two doors and locked them carefully. 
 
 130
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 He then drew a chair to the side of the desk farthest 
 from the doors and motioned Stanley toward it. Drop- 
 ping quietly into the chair he had vacated, Mr. James 
 opened a drawer in the desk and took out a small re- 
 volver a weapon that gleamed wickedly as it lay be- 
 tween the two men, but nearest to the hand of Mark 
 S. James. 
 
 "Now Mr. Waring," he said; "you will forgive my 
 brusqueness, but I require proof of the bona fide char- 
 acter of any one who comes to see me as a consequence 
 of knowledge he has acquired from Paul Copeland's 
 papers." 
 
 Stanley laughed easily at the elder man's threatening 
 attitude. 
 
 Before sitting down he walked to the window and 
 looked out into the street. 
 
 The man who had shadowed him from the Maryle- 
 bone station to this quiet street in the shadow of the 
 Temple was walking slowly up and down the court, 
 about fifty yards away from the main entrance to the 
 offices. 
 
 "Have you a confederate out there?" the lawyer 
 asked, grimly, still watching his visitor narrowly. 
 
 "No I have a shadow," Waring answered, surprised 
 at the other's manner. 
 
 "Ah !" Mr. James said, his manner changing slightly. 
 "If you are Waring, I see you are beginning to sense 
 some of the danger surrounding the secrets you have 
 acquired. Perhaps you will state your business and, 
 first of all, prove to me you are the man you profess 
 to be. It is a matter of prime urgency that you 
 should convince me at once." 
 
 131
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE attitude taken up by Paul Copeland's solici- 
 tor seemed unusual io the point where it bor- 
 dered on the eccentric to Stanley Waring. On 
 the other hand, he had begun to expect the unusual in 
 connection with affairs in any way touching upon the 
 interests of the Red Four. Instead of being surprised 
 or at least showing it he accepted the situation as 
 it stood. 
 
 Waring had never before taken part in an interview 
 where proof of identity was regarded as one of the 
 preliminaries, and for the moment he was slightly em- 
 barrassed as he thought over the possible procedure. 
 
 "I am afraid we shall not get very far with this inter- 
 view to-day," he began, pleasantly enough, "if you 
 doubt my statement that I am Stanley Waring. Our 
 business will have to be postponed until you have had 
 time to investigate my personal claims." 
 
 Mr. James altered his manner slightly at the frank 
 recognition of his right to make an unreasonable de- 
 mand. Perhaps Waring*s frank address did its share 
 in softening the sharp edge of his address. 
 
 "I guess you think me slightly unprofessional," he 
 said, speaking in a prim, high-pitched voice. As he 
 spoke Mr. James smiled, but his eyes were fixed stead- 
 ily on the man before him. 
 
 "It certainly is not usual, in any professional rela- 
 tionships I know, to demand proof of the identity of 
 
 132
 
 THE BED COLONEL 
 
 a caller at the point of a revolver," Stanley said, 
 smiling at the grotesque character of the idea. 
 
 "Quite true quite true," the high-pitched voice 
 agreed. "But this is not a usual business. Perhaps 
 the best proof of identity you can give is to tell me 
 why you are here." 
 
 "I can only repeat," Stanley urged, "that I am here 
 on behalf of Miss Vesta Copeland. Perhaps I ought 
 to tell you of the circumstances surrounding her 
 father's end." 
 
 "No," the older man answered. "That is unneces- 
 sary. I know all that appeared in the newspapers 
 about the matter and a little more," he added, look- 
 ing up quickly. "Tell me, what is Miss Copeland to 
 you?" 
 
 "I hope, in the near future, to make her my wife," 
 Waring answered, proudly. "At the moment she re- 
 sides with my people at Missingham. We obtained 
 Paul Copeland's consent to our marriage the very 
 night he died." 
 
 , "Humph! very plausible," the solicitor answered, 
 "but not convincing." 
 
 "Then I can only ask you to visit Missingham," 
 Waring said, irritably. "You might see my people, 
 Miss Copeland, a few of the villagers who have known 
 me from birth, and perhaps" here Waring's lips 
 curled "my birth certificate itself." 
 
 "Tut, tut!" the other rejoined, smiling at Waring's 
 manner. "If you are Waring, you will know I am not 
 exactly a fool in my folly. Your answers to a few 
 questions will prove all I want to learn. You knew 
 Paul Copeland eh?" 
 
 133
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Yes," Stanley replied. 
 
 "You knew his past, perhaps?" the lawyer asked. 
 
 "Some of it yes." 
 
 "Then why did you remain silent at the inquest?" 
 James asked, sternly. 
 
 "There were three others in the Red Four," Waring 
 answered, with convincing directness. "I am going 
 after them." 
 
 The lawyer's eyes brightened and he eyed Stanley 
 curiously for a few moments in silence. 
 
 "Humph !" he answered, at length. "One other ques- 
 tion. Who has Paul Copeland's private papers are 
 they in your hands, mine, or the Red Colonel's?" 
 
 "You have the papers relating to Vesta Copeland's 
 private means," Waring said, catching the drift of the 
 prim lawyer's questions. "I have the few papers relat- 
 ing to Paul Copeland. The Red Colonel made an 
 error in his calculations. The information he wanted 
 passed into my hands on the night of the crime." 
 
 "Show me the papers," Mr. James said, his manner 
 changing. 
 
 Stanley Waring handed over the memoranda written 
 by Paul Copeland. The rest of the details inclosed in 
 the envelope Waring had left carefully hidden in his 
 rooms. 
 
 Mr. James read the paper carefully, and at the end 
 of his scrutiny nodded slowly. 
 
 "These were not all?" he said, tapping the papers. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Where are the other items?" he asked. 
 
 "At Missingham, securely hidden. They prove noth- 
 ing without a visit to the house. I did not think it 
 
 134
 
 necessary, at this juncture, to produce them for your 
 inspection." 
 
 Mr. James folded the papers and returned them, his 
 eyes fixed on Waring's face. The other pocketed the 
 documents without any change of manner. 
 
 "I am satisfied you are Waring," James said, at 
 last. 
 
 "Why?" Waring asked. 
 
 "Because you have brought those papers to me." 
 
 "I do not quite follow your reasoning," Waring 
 suggested. 
 
 "Very simple, I assure you," the lawyer answered. 
 "I read the inquest proceedings closely. In one or 
 two matters they left me in a fog. I failed to gather 
 who had the papers. If the Red Colonel failed, I ex- 
 pected him to call on me, because he knows I was act- 
 ing for Copeland, though I do not quite see how he 
 gained the knowledge. If he did not find the papers 
 in Copeland's rooms, he would assume them to be in 
 the possession of the only man he knew to be in Cope- 
 land's confidence. I came to the conclusion that the 
 papers had passed to him, as neither you nor the police 
 made any sign. I admit I overlooked the possibility 
 of your having them, owing to your public silence. 
 When your name was before me I suddenly realized 
 you had the papers. My belief was that the Red 
 Colonel would know that, too. I was therefore pre- 
 pared for the possibility that he might anticipate your 
 visit by sending one of his emissaries to pump me or 
 forcibly to search my office, using your identity as a 
 cloak for the introduction. I apologize for seeming 
 to doubt you. Now, sir, you are a shrewd youngster, 
 
 135
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 I can see. Do you know what the possession of this 
 knowledge means to you?" 
 
 "Yes," Stanley answered. "At least, I can guess." 
 
 "Your knowledge means hourly danger you appre- 
 ciate that?" Mr. James said, his voice sinking. 
 
 "Yes I quite realize the position," Waring said, 
 slowly. "I came to see how far you could help me 
 to " 
 
 The elderly lawyer stopped Waring by breaking 
 rudely into the sentence he was speaking. 
 
 "I am going to make my position clear," he began, 
 speaking rapidly. "I desire to know nothing of Paul 
 Copeland's affairs. I learned, in a general way, what 
 he was. > I know, too, that he held a secret leading to 
 great wealth. I refused to allow Copeland to tell me 
 the secret, and I desire you to keep the knowledge to 
 yourself if you have it. There are two reasons for 
 this. First a knowledge of the matter would be un- 
 professional if I did not share it with the police. Sec- 
 ondly, I am an aging man. My taste for excitement, 
 for a life of daily risk, has vanished. I have lived 
 over the period of life when danger is fascinating, and 
 one deliberately looks for trouble on the slightest hint 
 of its whereabouts. Besides, I have already suffered 
 enough." 
 
 "You mean " began Waring. 
 
 "Just what I say." Mr. James answered the un- 
 spoken question decisively. "Already, in five years, 
 my remote connection with Paul Copeland has cost me 
 much annoyance and no little anxiety. My office here 
 has been forcibly entered. An attempt was made on 
 my private house at Hampstead. I have been brow- 
 
 136
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 beaten, during a solitary walk, by a man I had never 
 seen before, for knowledge of Paul Copeland's where- 
 abouts. Of late I have come to think they believe I 
 know little of Copeland and his secret. Latterly they 
 have left me alone." 
 
 The man's manner was both positive and urgent. 
 He seemed to be laboring under a sense of deep un- 
 rest. 
 
 "You think all these annoyances are due to the same 
 agents?" Waring asked. 
 
 "I do." The other's voice shook a little with anx- 
 iety. "And, since you have been followed here, they 
 will begin again. I refused to have anything to do 
 with Paul Copeland's affairs, and I refuse to know 
 anything more about them now. There is an atmos- 
 phere of life or death about the methods of his late 
 friends that is not good for the peace of mind of a 
 man who desires only a quiet life for the evening of his 
 days." 
 
 Stanley Waring looked at the man before him, a 
 puzzled frown on his healthy, youthful face. 
 
 "Why did you touch the matter at all?" he said, at 
 last. 
 
 The older man's face softened a little as he paused 
 before answering. 
 
 "A matter of sentiment," he said, at length, "a weak- 
 ness undesirable in all men, most of all in a lawyer. 
 Vesta Copeland's mother, you may perhaps be sur- 
 prised to know, was my sister. I knew her husband 
 Vesta's father, a thoroughly worthy man. I desired 
 to protect the girl's interest, and when Copeland came 
 to me and told me his wife was dead, and outlined some- 
 
 137
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 thing of what his life had been, I agreed to help him 
 only on one set of conditions." 
 
 "And they were?" Waring asked. 
 
 "That Vesta's interests should be secured only so 
 far as her possessions honestly acquired by inheritance 
 were concerned. That the whole of her property 
 should be transferred to me and only her property. 
 That Copeland should trust me as an honest man to 
 safeguard these interests. That from the moment he 
 did so he should not appear to have a single connection 
 with the properties left in my care." 
 
 "And he agreed to that?" 
 
 "He had to. I was the only link in the family con- 
 nection. I was the only man he dared to trust. I was 
 the only man he could trust." 
 
 "What, then, is your advice?" Waring asked, more 
 and more mystified by the other's manner. 
 
 The other rose, walked toward him, and placed his 
 hand almost affectionately on the younger man's shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "Forget Paul Copeland," he said, impressively. "He 
 was not worth the sacrifice of a moment's thought on 
 the part of an honest man. All that Vesta is entitled 
 to I have, and there is not the stain of blood or the 
 tarnished breath of crime upon a single guinea of it. 
 Copeland, I see, puts the estate down at 10,000. By 
 my own careful investment it is now nearer to 15,000 
 a nice sum, if not a large one. Leave the whole 
 ugly, sinister business at that. Let me administer or 
 realize for you, as you will, the possessions standing 
 under Miss Copeland's real name, Vesta Forsyth, and 
 leave the old story where it was before you found these 
 
 138
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 few links buried in the past. Greed of this dead man's 
 dishonorable gold will bring its own punishment a 
 life of unrest and perhaps, as has been the way of 
 many in touch with these men, a violent death." 
 
 Stanley Waring rose and faced the older man, im- 
 pressed by his words. 
 
 "Believe me, sir,'* he said, after a pause, "it is not 
 greed of gold, as you put it, that brings me here. I 
 do not want to touch a single tainted sovereign of the 
 dead man's hoard." 
 
 "I know," the lawyer answered, kindly. "At least, 
 I do not know; but some little knowledge of character 
 tells me that when I glance at your face. Bury your 
 knowledge and forget it as I have tried to do." 
 
 "But I cannot, sir," Waring said, positively, shaking 
 his head. 
 
 "Why," asked Mr. James, looking steadily and with 
 some disappointment at the younger man. 
 
 "For the reason you have already given," Waring 
 replied. "The matter is out of my hands. I am drawn 
 into the game willy nilly. The Red Colonel knows. I 
 can only fall out of this tangle by playing the coward's 
 part. And I simply cannot do that." 
 
 Mark James looked still more kindly on Stanley 
 Waring. 
 
 "I think I understand," he said, gently. "They 
 know you hold the secret and are already on your 
 trail?" 
 
 "Yes I believe I have even now met the Red Colo- 
 nel," Stanley answered, grimly. "Either I give in 
 without a blow and hand over to the surviving members 
 of the Red Four what they want, condone the murder 
 
 139
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 of Copeland and the other worthier men they may 
 have butchered, and make possible further crimes in 
 the future by letting them go in safety or I fight." 
 
 "What is your decision?" the lawyer asked, gravely, 
 though his manner seemed to indicate he knew the an- 
 swer. 
 
 "I fight," Stanley said, simply. "I take the risk 
 and go after them alone." 
 
 James nodded his head slowly. 
 
 "That also I knew from your manner," he said, 
 simply. "Yours is that kind of face. There is some- 
 thing of the hound about its outlines. Well, it is a 
 matter for yourself. I wish you luck and safety." 
 
 The solicitor did not try to dissuade Waring. A 
 man of the world, he knew his type. 
 
 "If I can help, I will," he added, almost grudgingly. 
 "But at present nothing is to be gained by making me 
 a party to an adventure the prospect of which I cor- 
 dially dislike. What do you purpose doing first?" 
 
 "I would like to see the house standing in Vesta's 
 name," Stanley said, at once. 
 
 "That, I think, will be easy," the solicitor answered. 
 "I let that years ago, when Copeland left it. I will 
 write to the agent about it to-night, and send you on 
 the particulars. What of Vesta Copeland's income?" 
 
 "How does that stand?" Waring asked. 
 
 "She has never drawn on it direct," the lawyer an- 
 swered. "Paul Copeland apparently maintained her. 
 I doubt if she knows of the existence of the properties. 
 You can let her know as much as you deem safe and 
 she can draw on me for anything up to 600 a year. 
 At your convenience and hers, you can go over the 
 
 140
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 details of Miss Copeland's possessions. I will have 
 them all looked up." 
 
 Stanley Waring rose to go, his manner expressing 
 some reluctance. 
 
 "I thought you would have told me more of Cope- 
 land," he said, before departing. 
 
 "I am afraid you must believe me when I say I do 
 not know much more than you do. I do not even 
 know how my sister met her end. I only know the 
 general outlines of the story as it has been revealed to 
 you. I refused to know more. If I can think of any 
 sidelight on the matter likely to help you, depend on 
 me I will see you are put into quick possession of the 
 facts." 
 
 With this slight concession, Stanley Waring had to 
 be content. He left, after a cordial handshake, con- 
 vinced of the integrity and the sincerity of the old- 
 world lawyer of Temple Court, and, such is the out- 
 look of lusty youth when confronted with the prospect 
 of adventure, perhaps a little contemptuous of the 
 quiet old man's timidity. 
 
 As he walked out of the building, hesitating for a 
 second on the entrance steps before making a plunge 
 into the street, he saw the man who had shadowed him 
 from Marylebone lounging on the other side of the 
 road, studiously reading the photographs and letter- 
 press displayed in the window of a publisher's office. 
 
 Without showing any signs of a knowledge that he 
 was observed Waring threaded his way to Fleet Street, 
 and the man of Italian aspect, suddenly becoming alert 
 and active, followed unobtrusively in his wake. 
 
 141
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 STANLEY WARING returned to Missingham on 
 a train leaving town after lunch. 
 Much to his amusement, the man of Italian 
 habit clung to Waring like a shadow until the train 
 drew out of the station. Part of Waring's enjoyment 
 of the situation was his ability to take the Red Colonel's 
 spy on a journey trying to the temper and without any 
 possibility of profit. Waring, during that day's visit 
 to London, occupied himself no further with inquiries 
 relating to the affairs of Paul Copeland. He judged 
 it safer to wait the next move on the part of his ene- 
 mies, who, believing they were fighting in the dark* 
 would be sure to take action without any unnecessary 
 loss of time. 
 
 Waring had no doubt in his mind now that Gay- 
 thorne, unlikely as it seemed, was associated with the 
 crime. He realized the chauffeur had reported his 
 departure as soon as he left the station, and a close 
 description of his appearance had been sent to the 
 third man who had continued to watch Waring's move- 
 ments through the town. 
 
 As he traveled back Waring realized also that in 
 his further London inquiries he would have to devise 
 some scheme for evading the espionage of Gaythorne's 
 agents and of playing the spy on them, in his turn. 
 Waring's mind was busy with the many preoccupations 
 arising from the incidents of the last two days, and
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 more and more he appreciated the growing seriousness 
 of the task Fate had set him that of treading stealth- 
 ily and warily on the heels of the criminals whose ruth- 
 less actions proved they stopped at nothing when op- 
 position stood between them and their own desires. 
 
 One or two events had occurred in Missingham to 
 surprise Stanley Waring on his return. 
 
 At the station he found himself looking eagerly for 
 the figure of the man who had watched him depart. 
 His mind was now bent on the three men whose ac- 
 tions seemed to be influencing his own and crowding 
 in on his daily life. 
 
 The man referred to as Cunning by Gaythorne was 
 not present on the Missingham platform, but some one 
 was waiting to meet Waring Vesta Copeland. The 
 girl had apparently come to the station on the chance 
 of her lover being on that train, and her face was 
 radiant with delighted blushes as her glance fell upon 
 his well-known figure. 
 
 "Why you do not even seem to be glad I have come 
 to meet you," Vesta said. "You look as if you ex- 
 pected to see someone else." 
 
 So closely had Waring's mind been concentrated on 
 the possible appearance of any of the survivors of the 
 Red Four that he had, as a matter of fact, found him- 
 self almost unable to respond instantly to another influ- 
 ence. He made amends for his apparent preoccupation 
 by at once giving all his thought to the eager girl 
 who walked by his side. 
 
 "I am so glad you have come," Vesta said, as they 
 turned from the station into the darkening village 
 street. "I have been so anxious." 
 
 143
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Why?" asked Waring, concentrating his attention 
 on the girl. "You surely were not concerned about 
 me." 
 
 "Egotist," she laughed, and then looked at him, 
 proudly. "No I was not concerned about you. I 
 always feel my big, strong lover can take care of his 
 own destiny. I am concerned about an incident that 
 has happened to myself." 
 
 Waring, as he heard the words, felt a shy pressure 
 on his arm, and knew from the slightly trembling hand 
 that, light as the girl's words were, she was laboring 
 under some excitement. 
 
 "What has happened ?" he asked, eagerly. "Nothing 
 disturbing, I hope." 
 
 "I do not quite know," Vesta replied, with a laugh 
 suggesting the high tension of her spirits. "You may 
 think me foolish and that I make mountains out of 
 molehills." 
 
 "Tell me everything unusual that has happened and 
 leave me to think what I like," he urged. 
 
 "I have been followed," Vesta Copeland said. "Fol- 
 lowed for at least an hour to-day." 
 
 Waring started slightly at the girl's suggestion. 
 Here was a new danger he had not at once reckoned 
 upon the possibility of some of the attentions show- 
 ered upon himself being diverted in the direction of the 
 girl he was most desirous of protecting. 
 
 "Are you sure?" he asked, his manner troubled. 
 
 "Yes by a little man; a rather odd little man. I 
 noticed him first this morning as I left home for the 
 village. He was standing outside the schoolhouse gates, 
 looking up at the windows."
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Could you describe him?" Stanley asked, eagerly. 
 
 "Yes," Vesta said, promptly. "A little man, well 
 under the medium height. He wore a long overcoat 
 reaching to his heels and a soft tweed hat coming low 
 down upon the face. He carried a heavy stick and 
 was leaning on it when I first saw him. I noticed, 
 when he walked, the man limped slightly. He had 
 closely cropped hair." 
 
 "Was he clean shaven?" Stanley asked, hurriedly. 
 
 "No he wore a closely cut beard, turning gray," 
 Vesta answered. "He was rather an unusual type and 
 might have passed for a man of the artisan class who 
 had prospered." 
 
 Waring's mouth set in a grim line and a growing 
 frown deepened on his usually frank face. 
 
 Vesta turned from the task of description to a his- 
 tory of the day. The salient facts, as they emerged, 
 were two, so far as they appealed to Stanley Waring's 
 mind. According to Vesta's recital of the facts, she 
 had set out for the village about twelve and had seen 
 the strange man for the first time near the schoolhouse. 
 Vesta had called on Mr. Abraham, the estate agent, 
 who had explained over the telephone that he had an 
 inquiry for Wayside Lodge, and would like the key so 
 that the man who had called could view. She had 
 promised this, and her morning visit to the village 
 had been taken largely for the purpose of delivering 
 the key. On returning to the schoolhouse, she had 
 noticed the stranger again in the village street. 
 
 The odd part of Vesta's adventure was that she had 
 set out for her usual walk in the afternoon alone about 
 the hour of three o'clock along a field path lead- 
 
 145
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ing to the golf links. On the return journey she 
 had been accosted by the man she had seen outside 
 Stanley Waring's home about the hour of twelve 
 o'clock. 
 
 Vesta was not able to give the whole of their con- 
 versation, but her mind had dwelt on the details and 
 she had an accurate outline of its substance. 
 
 The man had addressed her by name civilly enough, 
 and she had stopped to speak to him. He began by 
 asking her several roundabout questions relating to 
 the murder at Wayside Lodge, and she had at once 
 checked him by stating she did not wish to discuss a 
 painful matter with a total stranger. 
 
 "And what did he reply?" Waring asked. 
 
 "Why, then he began to say things that worried 
 me," Vesta answered, speaking rapidly. "He said 
 there were some things in life we had to discuss with- 
 out any regard for our feelings, and the murder of 
 Paul Copeland was one of them so far as I was con- 
 cerned. He was making inquiries into the tragedy, 
 the man explained, and I gathered that he was a de- 
 tective or a private inquiry agent." 
 
 "What line did his questions take?" Waring asked, 
 an edge to his youthful voice. 
 
 "Well I told him, as positively as I could, if he had 
 any inquiries to put to me, he might ask all the ques- 
 tions he liked, but only at the proper time and place. 
 I suggested he should come to the schoolhouse and see 
 me under more usual circumstances, instead of waylay- 
 ing me in the open. I refused to answer any further 
 questions unless the examination took place at home, 
 in the presence of my advisors." 
 
 146
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Waring nodded slowly as he heard Vesta's explana- 
 tions. 
 
 "Quite right," he said, absently. "Did that appear 
 to satisfy him?" he asked, looking down at the girl's 
 earnest, upturned face. 
 
 "No I became just a little frightened," she said, 
 her eyes brightening. "The little man seemed angry, 
 and I did not like the look of him. He began to say 
 I would live to regret my action, and I gathered the 
 impression that his wprds implied I knew more than 
 I was prepared to tell. I did not like the way he 
 looked at me, nor the tone of his voice, and I was begin- 
 ning to feel quite scared. And then he said something 
 that seemed to me most significant. He asked me if 
 I knew anything of Paul Copeland's past or of his 
 enemies." 
 
 "And what did you say?" Waring asked, his whole 
 being intent on the girl's words. 
 
 "I told him I knew no more than I said at the in- 
 quest." Here the girl stopped suddenly and looked up 
 at Waring. 
 
 "Did he accept that?" Waring asked, eagerly. 
 
 "He said I lied. He was almost violent in his man- 
 ner. He said something about secrets in my father's 
 past and that someone must know about them. He 
 suggested that I must have some papers throwing light 
 upon what Copeland was and where he had been." 
 
 The girl paused again in her hurried narrative. 
 
 "And then?" Waring prompted. 
 
 "Why, then I denied any knowledge of my father, 
 refused to continue the conversation and turned on 
 my heel. I thought, at first, the man was going to 
 
 147
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 detain me. He called after me, and began to walk 
 rapidly in my wake. I looked round and saw him 
 coming. I noticed he did not limp at all. I was so 
 frightened that I thought of running, but just then 
 a man and a woman turned into the field path. The 
 man saw them as quickly as I did, and stopped 
 following as if he desired to overtake me. He did 
 not seem to wish to attract attention. When I 
 reached the end of the path and joined the road 
 to the village I turned round and saw him limping 
 slowly along, as I had seen him walk early this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "And that is all you can recall?" Stanley Waring 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes as near as I can remember that was the sub- 
 stance of the matter," Vesta answered. 
 
 A deep silence fell between the two for some minutes 
 as they neared the schoolhouse. 
 
 "What do you make of it?" Waring said at last. 
 
 "I don't know," the girl answered, uneasily. "There 
 is something sinister, ugly and disquieting about it all. 
 I had only one feeling, an instinctive belief that this 
 man was not a detective and had no right to stop me 
 and put the questions he did." 
 
 Waring walked along in moody silence for some 
 minutes. He saw the shadow of the darker life into 
 which he had drifted settling about the girl. He now 
 knew he could not hide the matter from Vesta much 
 longer, or, at least, he must share sufficient of his 
 knowledge to place her on guard. 
 
 "I want you to trust me," he said, at last, and very 
 earnestly. 
 
 148
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Why, Stanley," she said, her voice thrilling him, 
 "I do trust you. Surely you know that." 
 
 "I want you to trust me in specific matters," he 
 said, more seriously. "I want you never to express 
 an opinion about your father's end to anyone with- 
 out consulting me. I want you to refuse any inter- 
 view with strangers unless I am present. I want you 
 not to leave the village streets or to travel through 
 any lonely thoroughfares unless I am with you." 
 
 She looked up at him, saw his eager eyes fixed on 
 hers, noted the anxiety in his voice and the concern in 
 his face. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, slightly smiling. "I am afraid I 
 have frightened you more than this odd little monster 
 frightened me." 
 
 There was no answering gleam of laughter about his 
 set features. 
 
 "Promise me," he said. 
 
 "Why, yes, dear; if you think it is necessary, I do 
 promise," she answered. "But why?" 
 
 "Will you try to be content with my assurance that 
 it is necessary you should do as I suggest, without a 
 reason?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," Vesta answered, simply. "I trust you in all 
 things you who are so kind. But I am not a little 
 child, Stanley. What do you fear? What do you 
 know?" 
 
 "I do not want you to know what I fear," he an- 
 swered. "I want you to be kept outside the region of 
 my fears. But I know there is danger for you for 
 me." 
 
 "Where?" Vesta asked, urgently. 
 149
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "I want you to be content with this one statement. 
 There were grave secrets in your father's past. He 
 was murdered for possession of those secrets. In a 
 day or two I may be able to tell you more. But I 
 have your promise you will not leave Missingham or 
 go about alone in quiet places, whatever suggestion is 
 made to you, without consulting me. You will not 
 see any stranger unless I am present." 
 
 "But, Stanley, if there is danger to you, I must 
 know," she began. "All the danger, if it exists, comes 
 through me to you. You cannot expect me to be con- 
 tent with a warning that may leave me safe, but will 
 place you in peril." 
 
 "For the moment I do," he answered. "If you 
 trust me, you will believe without question I am taking 
 what I think to be the right course. I have several 
 things I want to do this evening, but I'll think over 
 this matter during the night, and see how far I can 
 outline this danger a danger I know to exist, though 
 I can, as yet, only guess its extent. But for the mo- 
 ment trust me and believe, strange as my action is, I 
 ask you to carry out my wishes in your own interests 
 alone." 
 
 They stood outside the entry to the schoolhouse, 
 and the girl impulsively embraced her lover in silent 
 assent. 
 
 When Stanley Waring had seen Vesta safely into 
 his own house he at once left and walked rapidly to the 
 village. 
 
 Two thoughts were in his mind, and he had decided 
 to test them without delay. 
 
 A light was burning in the latticed windows of John 
 150
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Abraham's office, and a clerk was still at work there. 
 
 Stanley strolled in and quietly engaged the attention 
 of the house agent's clerk. 
 
 "Miss Copeland desires you to take care of her 
 property in showing people over Wayside Lodge," he 
 suggested, in a round-about conversation. "Some of 
 the property left in the rooms is valuable." 
 
 "But there is nothing lying about," the clerk said. 
 "I saw to that the last time I was there. Everything 
 is locked up that Miss Copeland has left." 
 
 "I thought I would mention the matter," Waring 
 suggested, casually. "I hear you have a prospective 
 tenant." 
 
 "Yes, he came and took the key at noon." 
 
 "Who was he anyone I know?" Waring asked, 
 carelessly. 
 
 "No stranger London address," the clerk an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Was that the man I saw in the village street this 
 morning?" Waring asked, betraying no acute interest 
 in the matter. 
 
 "I dunno," the clerk answered. "Was he a little 
 bloke, all overcoat, with a bit of gray whisker ?" 
 
 "Yes that was the man, I think," Stanley said, 
 turning away. "Well, just keep an eye on Miss Cope- 
 land's property, in any case," he added, still more 
 casually. 
 
 Waring stepped out of the office, and, once in the 
 street, walked rapidly in the direction of the Black 
 Lion. 
 
 His manner, as he entered the lounge, was more 
 restful, and he advanced on Broadleigh, who stood 
 
 151
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 warming himself complacently before his own fire, in 
 the professional, expectant manner. 
 
 "Well how is my patient faring to-night?" he 
 asked. "I thought I would drop in, as I was passing." 
 
 Broadleigh looked up with a frown. A country 
 hotelkeeper does not lose profitable paying guests in 
 midwinter without a qualm. 
 
 "Why, don't you know?" Broadleigh asked, with 
 some surprise in his voice. 
 
 "Know what?" asked Waring. 
 
 "They've gone first thing this morning," Broad- 
 leigh answered, irritation in his voice. "Mr. Gaythorne 
 grumbled at his breakfast and then said Missingham 
 was so quiet that if he stayed another day in the place 
 he'd go mad. So he had his bill and drove off before 
 ten o'clock. Some people in this world are never satis- 
 fied," Isaac Broadleigh added, with a profound sigh, as 
 he looked solemnly into the fire.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 SOUND reasoning was at the base of Stanley War- 
 ing's immediate actions when he found both Gay- 
 thorne and the chauffeur had left the Black 
 Lion reason and infinite patience. 
 
 Thus he explained the possibilities of the situation 
 to himself. Gaythorne had taken quarters at the Black 
 Lion to find out where Copeland had left his papers. 
 A first step had been to see Waring, the only man 
 who had any apparent intimacy with Copeland and the 
 man who discovered the body. Plainly, on the night 
 of the murder, the thieves had not found what they 
 wanted, nor were they sure of their ground. Gay- 
 thorne's first need was to locate the clew to the hidden 
 treasure and his first step had been as close to a cross- 
 examination of Waring as he had dared to go. Was 
 he satisfied with that meeting? 
 
 Waring concluded that Gaythorne was in some de- 
 gree satisfied. If the stranger at the Black Lion felt 
 there was anything further to gain by another meeting, 
 Waring argued he would have remained and devised 
 "ome excuse for a second interview. Plainly, Gay- 
 thorne's flight indicated he had abandoned further in- 
 quiry on the lines laid down. But the problem re- 
 mained uppermost in Waring's mind what had caused 
 Gaythorne to move on. Any one of four reasons 
 might have caused him to move. Gaythorne might 
 have decided Waring had the information he wanted. 
 
 153
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Or he might have concluded that the information did 
 not exist. Again, Gaythorne would consider the pos- 
 sibility of the clews having changed hands, leaving 
 either Copeland or Waring. And, last, the thieves 
 might still hope to find the clews at Wayside Lodge. 
 The last probability was the one chiefly influencing 
 Waring's mind as he thought the matter over. 
 
 There was no answer to these questions beyond 
 waiting and watching. Gaythorne would reveal him- 
 self to Waring, if he thought the young doctor held 
 the clews, and he would not pursue a third party, ac- 
 cording to Waring's reasoning, without learning some- 
 thing definite about the extent of Waring's knowledge. 
 There was only one channel along which he could make 
 further investigation without Waring's knowledge at 
 Wayside Lodge. Thus far Waring's reasoning took 
 him as he carefully thought the situation out. The 
 next move would be to search Wayside Lodge again a 
 conclusion supported by the incident of the afternoon. 
 Whoever was the man who masqueraded first as a de- 
 tective and then as a househunter, he was an emissary 
 of the Red Colonel's and he had the key to Wayside 
 Lodge. 
 
 The dinner party at the schoolhouse was a very quiet 
 one. Dr. Waring, the elder, had gone to the county 
 town and had not returned. Mrs. Waring chattered 
 in a desultory fashion. Vesta did her share toward 
 keeping the conversation going, but the incidents of 
 the afternoon and Waring's strange words still weighed 
 upon her mind. Waring was busy with his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 The hour was eight and the evening meal was over. 
 154
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Stanley Waring went to his room, put on a rough suit 
 of tweeds, and stuffed a small Smith and Wesson re- 
 volver into his coat pocket. 
 
 When he came down he met Vesta in the hall. 
 
 "Going out?" she asked, perhaps a shade disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 "Yes," he replied ; "do not wait up. I may be late. 
 You have other keys to Wayside Lodge?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes three," the girl answered, surprised. 
 
 "Then you might lend me the key to the kitchen 
 door," he suggested. 
 
 "You are going there to-night?" the girl asked, 
 slightly paling. "Your visit has some relationship to 
 the danger you hinted at this afternoon." 
 
 "Yes," he said, soberly. 
 
 "You must go into this danger?" Vesta asked, wist- 
 fully. 
 
 "Yes I want you to be silent about the matter. 
 And do not be anxious there is no danger to-night. 
 Several things are puzzling me. I want to have a good 
 look at the Lodge without being interrupted. I think 
 it will help." 
 
 "You are sure there is no danger?" Vesta asked. 
 "You have made me feel very anxious." 
 
 "Quite sure I am perfectly safe, sweetheart," he 
 answered, heartily enough, smiling grimly as his fin- 
 gers closed on the weapon in his pocket. "Do not 
 worry and, if I am late, don't lose any beauty sleep 
 by sitting up. And if any one asks for me, say nothing 
 definite. Just suggest you think I said something 
 about going to a whist party." 
 
 Stanley Waring set out, leaving Vesta very puzzled 
 155
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 and not a little uneasy. The hour was about eight- 
 fifteen. The night was fine, not too cold, with a new 
 moon. He walked rapidly down the main road until 
 well out of the village, glancing round frequently to 
 see that he was not followed. By making a detour 
 of about a mile and a half, he was able to approach 
 Wayside Lodge along the road leading to the village, 
 instead of away from it. When he reached the long 
 road, in which there were but few homesteads, and those 
 widely scattered, he stood for a full five minutes wait- 
 ing and listening. Then, as quickly as possible, he 
 walked toward the house, mounted a gate, stepped 
 through a paddock and so came upon the Lodge 
 through a plantation bringing him to the lawn upon 
 the side furthest from the road. 
 
 Not a soul was stirring. Silent, motionless as an 
 Indian hunter, Waring stood in the orchard. No 
 sound of human presence reached his ears; only the 
 gentle sigh of the wind among the branches or the 
 rustling of a handful of dead leaves in the grass. 
 Creeping through the kitchen garden, Waring reached 
 the door and entered the house. The place was silent 
 as the grave. By the light of the moon, as he walked 
 through the rooms, they seemed to him much as they 
 had been left after the police had given him per- 
 mission to take away Vesta's personal property 
 or lock it up. Windows and doors were closed and 
 none of the locked furniture appeared to have been 
 disturbed. 
 
 Waring left the house by the door he had entered. 
 Cautiously, he stood in the shadow of the gable over- 
 looking the lawn, and remained there for several min- 
 
 156
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 utes. Not a sound of human movement reached him 
 from the road. 
 
 As he remained, standing in the darkness, Stanley 
 Waring realized why he was there alone. Some one 
 had the key of Wayside Lodge, and he believed the 
 man who had the key would visit the house during 
 the night. Waring had made up his mind to stop and 
 watch the room where Copeland maintained his last 
 vigil. Instinct held him chained to the spot. He be- 
 lieved something would happen at Wayside Lodge that 
 night, something to help in the peril of his surround- 
 ings. 
 
 Often he doubted the wisdom of his project. Stand- 
 ing in the silence, minute after minute, is no cheerful 
 occupation for an active, high-strung man. Nine 
 o'clock chimed, and then, at intervals of a year it 
 seemed, each quarter of an hour was sounded by the 
 village clock. Now and again footsteps would ring 
 on the highway. A couple of whispering lovers walked 
 slowly by; Waring could hear the girl's lazy, con- 
 tented laughter. Again a gang of youths would march 
 past, whistling bravely, their footsteps in time and fall- 
 ing with the regular beat of marching soldiers. Or an 
 irregular footstep would be heard surely the progress 
 of some half-intoxicated villager. Then the sounds 
 would die away into an appalling, listening silence a 
 silence in which nature became strangely articulate. 
 Little noises of the night asserted themselves; some- 
 thing creaking in the grasses, a strange bat-like flut- 
 tering in the air, the rustle of a moving leaf, the far- 
 off hooting of an owl, the distant bark of a dog. Ten 
 o'clock struck. Again the quarters went by slowly, the 
 
 157
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 public clock marking them out by its chimes, and still 
 Stanley Waring remained, doggedly, in the shadow 
 waiting for he knew not what. 
 
 Eleven o'clock long drawn out, with the full chimes 
 of the clock and the long, slow toll of the counting 
 bell. 
 
 "Pshaw," Waring said. "Of all fools' errands, this 
 is one." 
 
 Still he remained motionless in the shadow. 
 
 The quarter after eleven had gone. Relaxing some- 
 what, Waring was getting impatient and even a little 
 irritable. But his will could not override his instinct. 
 He found it impossible to move away from the lonely 
 house. As if to justify the man's instinct, he heard a 
 new footfall on the road. The pedestrian making the 
 approach must have been hundreds of yards away when 
 Waring*s acute hearing realized his coming. And the 
 moment he heard the sound some instinct told Waring 
 he had not waited in vain. Listening, in the silence 
 and the darkness, Waring's hearing had grown sensi- 
 tive. Something furtive, hesitating, cautious in the 
 very sound of the footsteps told him the man who stole 
 rapidly along the road was no ordinary wayfarer. 
 Waring drew back deeper into the shadows. 
 
 Nor had he long to wait for confirmation. The foot- 
 steps came on, and stopped suddenly as they ap- 
 proached the grounds of Wayside Lodge. There was a 
 thrilling pause, and then Waring heard the noises a 
 man might make while awkwardly climbing a strange 
 fence. 
 
 In a hot wave of exultation, Waring, watching 
 closely, saw a figure emerge from the bushes and slowly 
 
 158
 
 THE BED COLONEL 
 
 cross the center of the lawn toward the house. In the 
 faint light of the moon Waring could see the man's 
 bulk, but no detail. He was strangely reminiscent, so 
 far as stature was concerned, of the man Gaythorne's 
 chauffeur who had followed Waring to the station 
 that morning. 
 
 Making little sound, the newcomer did not hesitate 
 as he crossed the lawn, nor did he stop to look at the 
 house. He was the man with the key that was obvi- 
 ous, for Waring saw him walk by the side of the house 
 to the main entrance, heard him turn the lock, open the 
 door and close it behind him, with a faint bang. After- 
 ward the sound of footsteps traversing the stone floor 
 was easily distinguishable. Standing in the garden, 
 Waring could trace the stranger's progress from room 
 to room by the noise he made, until at last he reached 
 the room looking on the balcony, having apparently 
 made a search by the way. 
 
 Stanley Waring did not seek to watch the man's 
 movements. He knew the lure drawing the stranger 
 to the scene of Paul Copeland's death was not there, 
 but in his own possession. He could hear the man, 
 tramping about the room, the sound of drawers being 
 pulled out, the breaking of woodwork and, now and 
 again, the forcing of a lock. The study leading to the 
 balcony was not illuminated, but occasionally Waring 
 could see a moving beam of light. Whoever was in 
 the room was searching thoroughly with the aid of a 
 dark lantern. 
 
 Stanley remained, wondering what his obvious course 
 of action should be. Instinct bade him to pounce upon 
 the man who worked like a mole in the darkened room 
 
 159
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 where Copeland had ended his unworthy life. Reason 
 prompted Waring to hold his hand to watch and wait. 
 Fate plays a part in most men's lives. The conditions 
 alter to the trick of circumstances, the influence mak- 
 ing or marring a situation being that which common 
 men call luck or ill-luck. Waring had the feeling that 
 the events of the night had passed out of his control. 
 He was just guessing in the dark, and believing that 
 Fate would order his judgment. He remained, still 
 and quiet in the shadow, watching the gleam of light 
 from the lantern as it flitted across the room, leaving 
 the moment to guide him in any action he might take, 
 as it arose. 
 
 Waring did not know how many minutes he waited 
 there in the deserted garden. The interval seemed an 
 eternity. He stood with his eyes fixed on the balcony 
 watching the moving light no other thought in his 
 mind. He knew he was waiting to see the face of the 
 man who searched Paul Copeland's study, and that was. 
 all. He was content to remain there fascinated, hisi 
 eyes fixed on the windows, his ears appraising every 
 sound, his brain trying to reconstruct the action from 
 the noises made. Waring had forgotten everything 
 outside the house. His thoughts were concentrated on 
 the movements of the man who searched for the key to 
 Copeland's treasure. 
 
 Without warning, he was recalled to the outside 
 world in which he stood. 
 
 A sudden whistling, so near it seemed to be at his 
 elbow, almost startled Waring into an indiscretion. 
 
 The sound of it seemed to freeze the blood in his 
 veins. The liquid notes, round and clear, piped the 
 
 160
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 call he had heard on the night of Paul Copeland's 
 death. 
 
 By a great effort of will Waring refrained from 
 moving, but his glance traveled from the balcony to 
 the lawn. 
 
 There, in the center, shown up by what little light 
 there was, stood the figure of a man. 
 
 As far as Waring could see, he was tall and heavy. 
 The line of his torso, against the gray darkness, 
 showed that he wore a close fitting- jersey. His legs 
 were clad in white duck trousers. He was such a figure 
 as Isaac Broadleigh had described as passing through 
 the village street the day Copeland died ; as Vesta had 
 seen walking along the highroad to Wayside Lodge. 
 He stood, roughly outlined, as still as a statue, his 
 glance directed up at the balcony window. 
 
 Even as Waring realized the presence of a second 
 visitor, the whistled signal was repeated. 
 
 Its effect on the man inside was rather surprising. 
 The gleam of light from the lantern was suddenly im- 
 prisoned and the room above was plunged into total 
 darkness. Followed a long, still, breathless pause. 
 Then, again, the sinister whistled bar of music struck 
 the still night air, round and soft, but eerie and in- 
 sistent. 
 
 The balcony window opened. The head and shoul- 
 ders of a man slowly appeared above the wooden rail- 
 ing. The voice that spoke wavered. 
 
 "Who is there?" the man above called. 
 
 "Who should be here?" the man on the lawn an- 
 swered. "You heard the summons. The Red Colonel 
 called. Why did you not obey at once?" 
 
 161 "
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 The other mumbled an answer, the words being 
 meaningless to Waring. 
 
 The man on the lawn walked quickly to the balcony. 
 He stood on the gravel path, looking up at the man 
 who peered down from the balcony. 
 
 "That's Cunning, isn't it?" the Red Colonel shouted. 
 
 "Yes." The word was spoken by the man above as 
 if he were being slowly strangled. 
 
 "And this is how you serve me," the Red Colonel 
 answered. "By the living God, you double on me," the 
 voice continued, each word hissing a passionate threat. 
 "Pray, Cunning pray for your soul. I'm coming up 
 and you stand within the shadow of the little cross." 
 
 With lithe, easy movements, the man on the lawn 
 began to swarm up the supports until he reached the 
 balcony, and stood beside the man called Cunning, 
 who was crouching near the open window.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WAKING'S heart beat rapidly as he heard the 
 second man speak, for there was no mistak- 
 ing the voice. Though the man was vastly 
 different in appearance so far as the light permitted 
 Waring to observe, the speaker was certainly his late 
 patient Gaythorne, the visitor who had suddenly left 
 the Black Lion Hotel that morning. 
 
 As the man walked nearer to Waring for the pur- 
 pose of climbing the balcony, the latter could see he 
 had completely altered his personal appearance. 
 
 The rough clothes of the begging sailor were in 
 themselves a sufficient disguise. The cap with the 
 glazed peak shielded half the face. A cunning treat- 
 ment of Gaythorne's characteristic moustache had al- 
 tered his whole expression. Gaythorne had trained his 
 moustache upward in the German manner; the man on 
 the lawn had left that feature to droop untrained, 
 doubtless to hide the jutting lower lip and much of 
 what was most characteristic about Gaythorne's facial 
 appearance. 
 
 The voice, however, was not disguised. Different as 
 the man was from Gaythorne, the voice revealed the 
 same personality. 
 
 Waring's first impression of exceptional activity and 
 physical strength was also borne out by the way Gay- 
 thorne climbed up the balcony. He swarmed the sup- 
 ports and dropped over the railing as nimbly as a cat 
 
 163
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 and as cleverly as a monkey, and was by the side of 
 the man he called Cunning with startling rapidity. 
 
 Stanley Waring was not prepared for what imme- 
 diately followed, and incident followed incident so 
 quickly that only after the events was Stanley Waring 
 able to piece them into a connected narrative. 
 
 From what he could see, and more through the words 
 he could hear, Waring gathered that the appearance of 
 the second man was rather a surprising incident to 
 Cunning. There was no doubt about one fact they 
 were not acting together. Their interests in being 
 there were antagonistic. 
 
 Overhead on the balcony a voice snapped. 
 
 "Put down the gun," Gaythorne commanded. "Put 
 it down, I say." 
 
 "Then don't come nearer to me," Cunning's voice 
 replied with a shake in it. 
 
 Stanley could see the two figures, three yards apart. 
 Cunning was evidently holding Gaythorne off at the 
 point of a revolver. 
 
 "Put down that gun, I say," Gaythorne commanded. 
 
 "I know your game, Colonel," the weaker voice re- 
 plied. "I don't stand here and let you come nearer. 
 You played the cross on me. I have tried to put the 
 same game over. Stand back." 
 
 The last words were spoken hurriedly, as if the man 
 were in some fear, as he had need to be. 
 
 Gaythorne had jumped the interval of space between 
 them with the speed of a wild animal springing on its 
 prey. In two steps and almost as quickly as the eye 
 could follow the movement, he was on the man, Cun- 
 ning. Stanley heard a curious, shuddering sob, a 
 
 164,
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 smothered oath, and then a sharp cry of pain. Some- 
 thing hurtled in the air and a revolver fell almost at 
 the feet of Waring. 
 
 Neither of the two men looked in the direction of the 
 falling weapon. 
 
 "Now, you dog," growled Gaythorne. "What do 
 you mean by turning your gun on me ?" 
 
 The other did not answer. 
 
 "Have you any more barkers about you?" Gay- 
 thorne asked. There was an interval of silence in 
 which the bigger man seemed to be searching the other. 
 "No God help you. Now, get inside, I want to talk 
 to you." 
 
 The smaller man shuffled through the open double 
 doors, the larger man following him with the lantern. 
 They went into the room, leaving the doors open. By 
 backing a little on the lawn in the darkness Stanley 
 could see they were sitting one on each side of a table. 
 The lantern, with the unclosed shutter, was so set be- 
 tween the two men that its one shaft of light outlined 
 the face of the man Cunning. 
 
 By the light Waring was able to verify his first sur- 
 mise. Cunning was Gaythorne's chauffeur and the man 
 who had stopped Vesta Copeland during the afternoon. 
 He had changed his appearance by adopting a care- 
 ful disguise. Cunning still wore the soft tweed hat 
 Vesta had described. About a face Waring had no- 
 ticed was clean shaved in the morning was a closely 
 cut beard, evidently false. He looked in this disguise 
 as Vesta had described him a man of the artisan type., 
 
 The painful, fascinating feature of the man's ap- 
 pearance was the state of terror he was in, a panic 
 
 165
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 no disguise could hide. As Cunning sat in the light, 
 abject fear appeared upon every line of his face. His 
 eyes were staring and the pupils were wildly dilated. 
 His face was a dull red, the veins on the forehead swell- 
 ing. The mouth was open as if terror, acting upon the 
 heart, were suffocating him and making it difficult for 
 the man to breathe. As he confronted his chief, some- 
 times he would move a shaking hand about his face, a 
 nervous action of which he was scarcely aware. The 
 trembling fingers plucked at his own ears and lips and 
 sometimes upon the beard, patches of the hair coming 
 away between the claw-like digits. 
 
 They were speaking again and Waring noticed the 
 face in the light grew more terrified with every word 
 the other man said. All Waring could see of Gaythorne 
 was a dark outline outside the circle of light a big, 
 menacing shadow. Strangely excited, Waring wanted 
 to watch the drama spreading such obvious terror over 
 Cunning's mind as it developed, but he had to choose 
 between seeing and hearing. He crept closer to the 
 house and stood in the darkness beneath the balcony 
 and under the open windows. 
 
 Some of the talk he could not make out. Other 
 words, whispered or mumbled, drifted away from War- 
 ing's hearing or were too faint to reach it. But, from 
 the conversation he did hear, Waring realized his guess 
 was right, the two men were quarreling and antagonis- 
 tic, while every word Gaythorne spoke had menace be- 
 hind it, either direct or indirect. 
 
 "I gave you your job why didn't you do it?" he 
 was saying. 
 
 Cunning did not reply. 
 
 166
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "You were to watch the girl and wait for news of 
 the man to keep your eye on him when he came back. 
 Where is this man Waring now?" 
 
 "I don't know," the chauffeur answered sulkily. 
 
 "No and you leave him to go about at his own 
 sweet will and we do not know that he hasn't a line on 
 us this minute," Gaythorne urged angrily. "You play 
 your own game, and you try to put the cross on me. 
 Why?" 
 
 The face of Cunning worked nervously in the light, 
 but he made no answer. 
 
 "You you stick a gun into my face," Gaythorne 
 went on furiously. "You have the nerve to attempt 
 that on me when I could crush you with a word. Why 
 have you gone back on me and the Warbler ? I suppose 
 you thought while I was out of the road looked a good 
 time for you to get a line on old Copeland's fortune. 
 I suppose if it had come off you would have disap- 
 peared as Copeland did, either giving us away to make 
 yourself safe, or lighting out and leaving us to trail 
 you as we did Copeland. Well, you haven't got away 
 with that horse. There's nothing doing for you. I 
 have you by the heels." 
 
 "On my honor!" the other man answered. "I was 
 not playing cross. I wasn't, on my honor. I'd got the 
 key. I thought it was up to me to go through the 
 house while I had the chance. I fancied I could have 
 made better terms with you if I had obtained the 
 papers. If I may die, that's what I thought." 
 
 "Bah! you thought," the Red Colonel stormed. 
 "You know the rule. I do the thinking. You move 
 when I give the say so. You stop when I call a halt. 
 
 167
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 You broke the rule. You were out for yourself and 
 precious little we should have seen of the game if I 
 hadn't held the odd trick. A man has to rise early 
 who puts the double on me, I tell you." 
 
 "Well damn you you doubled on me," Cunning 
 said desperately. "What if I am out for myself! I 
 am no different from you or the Warbler. Since we 
 did the ten stretch none of us have been playing the 
 game. We don't trust each other since Copeland 
 smashed us. The very night you put him out here 
 you fixed the murder on me. Who left the three-fin- 
 gered print you devil." 
 
 The Red Colonel laughed. There was a cal- 
 lous, cruel quality about his laughter and no mirth 
 in it. 
 
 "Ha ! ha !" he laughed. "That's the lay of it. You 
 own up. Well, you might as well, because I have you 
 worked out and know where you stand. I'd been watch- 
 ing you. I knew you were hedging on this game and 
 I had to fix you when I felt you'd be safe." 
 
 "And, by God! you did," the other man answered. 
 "A word from you and I'm the only man who will 
 swing for Copeland," Cunning said, a shake in his 
 voice. "It makes me shiver with fright when I think 
 of that mark of the three-fingered hand on the bank- 
 note." 
 
 "Yes you dog; you have it right," Gaythorne re- 
 plied. "And it is well we understand each other. What 
 have you got out of the search?" 
 
 "Nothing," the sulky voice of the driver answered. 
 
 "Ah !" grunted the Red Colonel doubtfully. 
 
 There was a silence of some minutes and Waring 
 168
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 guessed it was filled by a quick survey of the room by 
 Gaythorne. 
 
 Waring, crouching under the balcony, waited on to 
 hear more. The conversation, little as it was, had 
 cleared up one doubt in his mind. Two men had been 
 present at the murder of Paul Copeland. He re- 
 mained, hoping chance would set the men talking again, 
 and even lead them to betray the circles in which they 
 moved. He did not attempt to watch the two men, so 
 keen was he on hearing what they had to say, though 
 he heard their movements. 
 
 The silence remained unbroken for several min- 
 utes, and then was only disturbed by a shuddering, 
 gasping sound. To Waring it seemed as if Cunning 
 were giving expression to his own fear in hysterical 
 sobs. 
 
 Following, Waring heard the noise of hasty move- 
 ments once more, occasionally the banging of a door 
 and the sounds of drawers being opened and shut. No 
 further words were spoken between the two men. The 
 silence they maintained had a sinister quality and War- 
 ing grew restless with impatience. He was just going 
 to move away from the balcony and indeed had stepped 
 from underneath it into the shadow of the house with 
 the view of working his way to the lawn for the pur- 
 pose of watching rather than hearing when a footstep 
 sounded on the planks above. 
 
 Looking up, Waring saw the man he knew as Gay- 
 thorne, the man in the sailor habit. A big, threatening 
 figure, he stood in the open windows, listening. War- 
 ing saw him poised there for a few seconds. Then, 
 with a stealthy cat-like spring, he was over the railings 
 
 169
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 and had slipped down the poles and dropped on to the 
 gravel path. 
 
 Waring was so surprised by this unexpected move 
 that he had no time to think. Involuntarily he pressed 
 further back into the gloom of the favoring walls and, 
 before he could recover, the man who had left the bal- 
 cony was walking away from the house across the lawn. 
 
 Waring's first impulse was to follow, and he was 
 about to move stealthily in the wake of the vanishing 
 figure, when he remembered the second man Cunning. 
 At any moment he might follow his leader. Waring 
 pressed himself back to the wall, and his eyes were 
 fixed expectantly on the balcony. Along the road he 
 heard a motor car suddenly clatter as some one started 
 the engine, and then, with a purr, it glided away in the 
 direction of the village. 
 
 But no one emerged from the room above the bal- 
 cony. 
 
 Minute by minute went by and the man above made 
 no sound, either by movement or voice. The silence of 
 the room with the open door became, to Stanley War- 
 ing's mind, something appalling the place itself 
 dreadful with the growth of tragic mystery. The Red 
 Colonel had gone stealthily across the lawn; the other 
 man, his frightened tool, remained motionless in the 
 room above. 
 
 Waring rushed across the lawn and looked up and 
 down the lonely road. No one was moving upon it. 
 Without further hesitation he returned to the lawn 
 and from beneath the trees whistled as nearly as he 
 could imitate the bar of music he had heard the Red 
 Colonel use as a signal. 
 
 170
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 He remained, watching the open window, but no re- 
 sponse was made to the signal, although he gave it 
 again, and waited another half minute. 
 
 Making up his mind, Waring swarmed up the posts 
 and reached the balcony. With heart beating rapidly 
 he peered into the mysterious room. 
 
 What met his eyes was so horrible that Stanley War- 
 ing reeled with the shock of it, and when he looked 
 again his teeth were chattering, not with terror, but 
 through an overwhelming sense of physical repugnance.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IN the room left by Gaythorne his henchman, Cun- 
 ning, still remained. 
 The dark lantern was standing upon the seat 
 of a chair. The single shaft of light from the ball's- 
 eye was projected full upon the face of the man who 
 lay upon the floor. 
 
 As Waring had listened for the conversation to be re- 
 sumed, Cunning had been murdered with swift, silent 
 ruthlessness that explained the fear upon his face, as 
 he had sat opposite the Red Colonel. 
 
 To Waring, who attempted to reconstruct this 
 further crime, it seemed Gaythorne must have turned 
 from Cunning to the task of searching the room and 
 come to the conclusion as he moved about that the man 
 was dangerous to his further enterprises. 
 
 Pretending to be occupied with the papers littered 
 about the room, Gaythorne must have sprung from 
 behind Cunning straight on to 'his man, pinning him 
 by the throat. At all events, Cunning had met his 
 death by strangulation. The murdered man's face re- 
 minded Waring of Copeland's appearance when, 
 prompted by Vesta, he had rushed into the room to 
 find the body. When he came to examine Cunning 
 closely, Waring realized with a shock that the end 
 had been hastened by the same means. Wound about 
 the neck was a length of silver wire and Waring* s first 
 act was to free the victim from its pressure. 
 
 172
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Waring noted a difference in the mutilation of the 
 faces. Both Cunning's and Copeland's were marked. 
 In Copeland's murder a cross appeared, a tiny wound, 
 scratched upon the forehead. In Cunning's case, the 
 face had been slashed by a knife with a ferocity indi- 
 cating madness, taking the form of blood lust. The 
 lines of the wounds formed rude crosses on either side 
 of the face and the cheeks and jaws had been gashed 
 beyond recognition. 
 
 "Beyond recognition," Waring repeated, as he bent 
 to examine the murdered man and to make certain he 
 was beyond the reach of human aid. 
 
 The mutilation was not the result of fiendish mad- 
 ness, but was prompted by cold, pitiless cunning. 
 
 The Red Colonel, ruthless in his purpose, had de- 
 cided not to run the slightest risk of the murdered man 
 being associated with the so-called motor mechanic, 
 who had stayed with him as chauffeur at the Black 
 Lion. 
 
 Cunning himself had altered the whole of his attire, 
 and it was only necessary for Gaythorne to so mark the 
 distorted face as to make the body unrecognizable. 
 This he had done, without mercy or pity, almost before 
 life could have been extinct. 
 
 Stanley searched the pockets of the dead man, but 
 there was not a recognizable scrap of evidence about 
 him; Gaythorne had turned the contents out thor- 
 oughly, perhaps to make it impossible for any one to 
 trace the victim by his possessions, and again probably 
 to make sure Cunning had not found the record for 
 which he had been searching when Gaythorne had sur- 
 prised him at the task. 
 
 173
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Waring, with a sickening sense of disgust, turned 
 to an examination of the rooms directly he realized 
 nothing could be done for Cunning. The reason of 
 the presence of both men was plainly indicated by the 
 disorder of the room. Everything likely to contain 
 papers had been broken open. Contents of drawers, 
 cupboards and safe were tumbled in rude disorder on 
 the floor. Waring did not waste time on the litter of 
 papers. He knew nothing valuable was among them 
 and nothing that would throw light on Copeland's past. 
 Only, as his glance traveled over the floor, Waring 
 noted a small card case of red Morocco leather. This, 
 as being more likely to belong to Gaythorne than to 
 the dead man, he slipped into his pocket for further 
 examination. 
 
 The turn of events had left Waring little time to 
 think of his own connection with the grim happenings 
 at Wayside Lodge. He had suddenly drifted into a 
 nightmare of horror. Used to the appearance of death, 
 even by violence, the ruthless, appalling brutality of 
 this sudden murder had almost brought Waring's rea- 
 son to a standstill. After a last look round the room 
 he had decided to leave the premises, his first intention 
 being to summon help. He dropped rapidly over the 
 balcony and on to the lawn. Soon he was walking in 
 the direction of the village. Then Waring suddenly 
 asked himself what line of action he ought to take and, 
 halting in his walk, turned back and began to retrace 
 his steps. At once, he saw that if he were to fulfil 
 his own mission, and bring about the exposure of the 
 Red Colonel, his knowledge of the crime of that night 
 must be hidden. If, at the inquiry, he confessed to any 
 
 174
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 knowledge likely to suggest he had been watching, Gay- 
 thorne would not only know he had the papers, but, 
 should his victim be recognized, he would at once go to 
 earth. Stanley Waring, therefore, walked from Way- 
 side Lodge by the lonely way he had chosen on his 
 approach and reached the school-house by the hour of 
 one. 
 
 But not to sleep. With such a horror upon his 
 mind Waring could not rest. He remained irritably 
 pacing his bedroom, thinking out the strange series of 
 happenings into which he had been drawn. 
 
 Slowly he puzzled out the chain of circumstances, 
 and came to the conclusion that Gaythorne had driven 
 out of Missingham in the morning with his chauffeur 
 as a feint. Gaythorne had apparently dropped Cun- 
 ning and sent him back with precise instructions to ob- 
 tain the key and watch Waring. And unexpectedly 
 the Red Colonel had returned to watch his own man 
 with the result Waring had witnessed. 
 
 The card case Waring had picked up was examined 
 critically. It contained very little throwing light on 
 Gaythorne. Indeed, beyond three or four blank cards 
 and a few postage stamps, it was empty, save for a 
 scrap of paper. 
 
 On this was scrawled in penciled and hurried char- 
 acters a brief message: 
 
 Instruction received. Will attend to the shark. W. 
 
 The note contained no message for Waring. It 
 might have meant anything or nothing. 
 
 By now, however, Waring had come to know the 
 men with whom he had to deal, and realized the slightest 
 
 175
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 detail relating to them was significant. He pondered 
 over the scrap of paper for many minutes, but its 
 cryptic message shed no further light on the crime. 
 Long hours did Waring spend thinking over the sinis- 
 ter event he had virtually witnessed, and the more he 
 thought, the more conviction grew that the way Cope- 
 land had outlined for him was not only beset with dif- 
 ficulties, but with many dangers at the hands of reso- 
 lute and ruthless foes. What he had seen that night 
 had been, as yet, the gravest warning he had received. 
 Although he had realized the necessity of moving care- 
 fully along the Red Colonel's trail, Waring now knew 
 the slightest blunder would be fatal. 
 
 Although morning had well advanced before Stanley 
 retired, his mind was occupied with the tangled skein 
 of life into which he had strayed and he did not sleep 
 heavily or long. Indeed, he was down almost as soon 
 as the servants, and, although his overnight experiences 
 had been disturbing, he was to receive further proofs 
 of the Red Colonel's power. 
 
 By the hour of eight o'clock the morning papers had 
 arrived. Puzzled in his own mind as to how long it 
 would be before the second murder at Wayside Lodge 
 was discovered, and somewhat anxious to know how 
 the discovery would be brought about, he wandered 
 about the house restlessly. 
 
 At last, to take his mind off problems haunting him 
 to the point of obsession, Waring turned to the daily 
 papers and the news of the world's doings. 
 
 He sat in the morning room before a blazing fire, 
 idly turning over the crackling sheets, glad perhaps to 
 be alone and to recover himself to the point where he 
 
 176
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 could turn a casual air to his folk during the day. He 
 had a morbid horror of hearing the first announcement 
 of the second murder, a fear that his manner would be- 
 tray some consciousness of the crime. Indeed, to him- 
 self he seemed to be the possessor of guilty knowledge. 
 Time after time, he wondered whether he should call 
 in the police and make a clean breast of the matter and 
 time after time his instinct said no. He had given the 
 negative once again to the same question when he 
 turned to the paper, his mind working over his own 
 problems as he skimmed the columns. 
 
 Waring had not been glancing at the paper many 
 seconds, however, before his wandering attention was 
 brought to a sharp standstill. A paragraph stood out 
 before his eyes, with the curious insistence of any news- 
 paper item that has a personal interest to the reader. 
 
 He had been lightly skimming an account of the do- 
 ings at a fashionable fancy dress ball promoted by a 
 group of artists, a typical Bohemian function. The 
 paper gave a wealth of details about the decorations, 
 the frivolities, and the leading features of the party. 
 Considerable space was given to the personalities pres- 
 ent and their costume effects. The reader was told 
 how the Duchess of Blessington shone with a party of 
 friends in all the glory of Queen Elizabeth, her party, 
 making a suite of the distinguished people in Eliza- 
 beth's train. One also learned how Sir Horace Breeze, 
 with leading members of his Shaftsbury Avenue Com- 
 pany, arrived late and came as the characters in the 
 latest Shaftsbury success. Also, a junior minister had 
 been noticeable as Charles the Second. The newspaper 
 paragraph gave all the details. Waring was imbibing 
 
 177
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 the facts subconsciously when his brain came acutely to 
 attention over the following paragraph. 
 
 Mr. Henry Gaythorne and a bachelor party came on 
 after supper, and the popular American with a troupe of 
 friends, costumed to represent pioneers of the Mayflower, 
 were among the keenest merrymakers there. 
 
 Stanley Waring read and reread that paragraph. 
 At once he saw its significance. Either he had been 
 wrong in identifying his man, or the resources of the 
 Red Colonel grew much more menacing. That para- 
 graph obviously meant one of two things. Either 
 Waring had made a mistake scarcely explicable, or the 
 Red Colonel had anticipated any danger by providing 
 a perfect alibi which Waring would have a difficulty in 
 breaking down. 
 
 The paragraph did at least set doubts to rest in 
 Waring's mind. He was fighting an enemy as far- 
 sighted as he was keen, and any admission on War- 
 ing's part of the knowledge he had gleaned through 
 the night would defeat the probabilities of proving the 
 facts he suspected against Gaythorne. 
 
 But the paragraph, leaping to the eye from the re- 
 corded trivialities of a society masquerade, was not 
 the only piece of information to demand Waring's at- 
 tention. 
 
 He had turned to the paper as a relief from prob- 
 lems associated with the Red Colonel, but he was to 
 find that daily almost as closely in touch with the sin- 
 ister events as himself, though the newspaper gave the 
 details unconsciously. 
 
 178
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 No sooner had Waring recovered from the abstrac- 
 tion into which he had fallen on reading of Gaythorne's 
 presence at the fancy dress ball than his mind received 
 a fresh shock. 
 
 On another page of the paper a somber heading 
 called his attention to a further mystery : 
 
 A CITY SENSATION 
 SOLICITOR SHOT IN HIS OFFICE 
 
 Waring scanned the two lines mechanically. He had 
 no appetite for further tragedy. His eye was follow- 
 ing the lines, mechanically absorbing the facts, when 
 suddenly he sat up with a face pale with astonishment. 
 
 "Good God!" he said slowly to himself. "The old 
 solicitor, Mark S. James !" 
 
 There was no doubting the significance of the news. 
 It gave a straightforward but meager account of a 
 tragedy that had only leaked out and into the world 
 of newspaperdom late at night. Obviously, the matter 
 had not been fully investigated but the probabilities 
 were there plain enough, and Waring, in view of his pe- 
 culiar knowledge, could guess the rest of the details 
 likely to be available when the evening papers gave 
 fuller reports. 
 
 The police are busily engaged investigating the death of 
 Mr. Mark S. James, a solicitor who, for many years, has 
 practiced at 14a Temple Court [Waring road]. From the 
 information available we learn Mr. James stopped at his 
 office later than usual and was left by his clerks about the 
 
 179
 
 THE RED COLONEL. 
 
 hour of six, according to his direction. About nine o'clock 
 in the evening he was discovered by a cleaner in his own 
 room shot through the body, and had apparently been dead 
 for some time. The police are very reticent about the 
 matter, but inquiry late last night confirms the general offi- 
 cial impression that what at first sight seemed to have been 
 a case of suicide will turn out to be a mysterious crime. 
 No weapon has been discovered in the room, and there 
 were traces of a struggle. The face of the dead man was 
 slightly injured. A rude mark on the forehead took the 
 shape of a cross, but the police attach no importance to it. 
 The superficial cut might have been caused when the body 
 collapsed on the floor near the desk where Mr. James had 
 been working. 
 
 Apparently the newspaper men had not had time to 
 give the results of further inquiries. 
 
 Pale, shaken and unnerved by this disaster, Waring 
 sat staring into the fire. 
 
 That morning paper had given him food for thought 
 out of all proportion to his expectations. Whether 
 Gaythorne was the Red Colonel or not, the sinister 
 figure in Paul Copeland's past was a very real force in 
 the present and was spreading his net wide without 
 loss of time or opportunity. 
 
 "Breakfast is served," a servant said at Waring's 
 elbow. 
 
 Somewhat unsteadily he went to the breakfast room 
 and greeted the members of the family circle. Mrs. 
 Waring was pouring out coffee. Vesta was looking 
 with interest into a picture paper. His father was pre- 
 occupied with the Times. 
 
 A little pile of letters was set by Waring's plate. 
 180
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 He read them through one by one until he came to 
 the fourth. 
 
 As he broke the seal and looked at the letter inside 
 for the third time since he had risen Waring received 
 another surprise. 
 
 The letter was on professional notepaper, and bore 
 at the top the address of the dead solicitor "14a 
 Temple Court, E. C." 
 
 Dated the day before, its message was brief. 
 
 DEAR MR. WARING: [Stanley read in a crabbed legal 
 hand] 
 
 In pursuance of my promise, I am sending you partic- 
 ulars of the house 32 Beddoes Street belonging to Miss 
 Vesta Copeland. It has been let by our agent, Mr. Vincent 
 Dagleish, to a Mr. George Delane for a long term of years. 
 He writes, inclosing a note to the tenant, who will be 
 happy to show you over the place if you feel you would 
 still like to see the property. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 MARK S. JAMES. 
 
 P.S. As a friend, may I suggest you go warily in mat- 
 ters relating to P. C. I have reason to fear his associates 
 are active. 
 
 The body of the letter was written in a black ink in 
 firm characters and was such a letter as a lawyer's clerk 
 might indite. The postscript was written differently 
 and in the same handwriting as the signature, and the 
 letter had not been copied. A clerk had evidently writ- 
 ten the body of the letter to dictation. The postscript 
 had been, added by the solicitor himself, perhaps im- 
 
 181
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 pelled by a mere friendly desire to keep Waring on his 
 guard; and perhaps again as a warning arising out of 
 some sinister indication in his own day's round. 
 
 Though genuinely concerned about the death of the 
 old professional man whose personality had impressed 
 itself on Waring, Stanley had forgotten the two trage- 
 dies. His eyes were fixed on the address sent on to him 
 by the solicitor. 
 
 "Why, Stanley," he heard his mother's voice saying 
 in the placid, easy tones of one who has lived a shel- 
 tered life, "you are not eating your breakfast, and 
 you look why, you look as if you had seen a ghost." 
 
 Stanley smiled and pulled himself together, but as 
 he broke open an egg and made a pretence of taking 
 part in the small talk of the table his mind was occu- 
 pied by one phrase. 
 
 Odd, in view of the tragic knowledge he had ac- 
 quired overnight, that his brain should be turning over 
 such a trivial verbal combination, but drumming in 
 Waring's sharpened senses was a constant repetition 
 of the address given by Mr. James, and some of the 
 letters and numerals in Paul Copeland's memoranda. 
 
 "32 Beddoes Street 32 Bed " Waring found 
 
 himself thinking over and over again.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 f ^HE day after the murder of Cunning at Wayside 
 Lodge provided Stanley Waring with much to 
 occupy his mind. Immediately breakfast was 
 over he retired to his room and once more examined 
 the manuscript and other items left in his possession by 
 Paul Copeland. Many times he had read the story 
 through, and searched the narrative for some explana- 
 tion of the two rude designs forming part of the en- 
 closures. He had the clews of this Stanley Waring 
 was convinced but, look at them as closely as he might, 
 they offered no indication of their meaning. And here, 
 like a bolt from the blue, some part of the secret was 
 revealed in one of the last letters written by the solici- 
 tor who had met a tragic end in his rooms at Temple 
 Court. 
 
 As part of Paul Copeland's memoranda entrusted 
 to Stanley Waring the reader will remember a slip of 
 Bristol board on which had been drawn a crude de- 
 sign. 
 
 This design Stanley Waring had scrutinized many 
 times. It has been described already as a drawing that 
 might have represented an idle man's attempt to re- 
 produce some shape in a room, such as a panel in a 
 door, a corner to some piece of woodwork, even a quaint 
 specimen of oak carving. The drawing might have 
 represented something seen from a window, or in the 
 street, the moulding over an archway, a section of the 
 
 183
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ornamentation upon a stone pillar, a design above a 
 window frame. 
 
 Waring's scrutiny had led him thus far, but with so 
 many things the drawing might represent the puzzle 
 was to know exactly what it did illustrate. 
 
 Again Stanley looked at the characteristics of this 
 strange design, and again his mind failed to make more 
 of it than it had done before. But the line of letters 
 and numerals underneath, for the first time, took on 
 added significance. 
 
 The design had been marked by Copeland Fl 32 
 Bed R.M. 
 
 Over those letters Waring had puzzled, but his mind, 
 trained in the hospitals, had come no nearer to a solu- 
 tion than a belief that the central "32 Bed" in this line, 
 represented a bed in the ward of a hospital at some 
 time occupied by Paul Copeland. 
 
 And now, as he looked, some guide to the meaning of 
 Copeland's letters and figures was revealed. 
 
 Whatever Fl 32 Bed R.M. might mean alto- 
 gether, the center part of the cryptic line certainly in- 
 dicated the address of the house Vesta Copeland owned 
 the address, 32 Beddoes Street, forwarded by the 
 unfortunate solicitor, Mark James. 
 
 Time and a very tragic event had revealed one point 
 where Waring should at least start his inquiry. The 
 similarity between 32 Bed and 32 Beddoes Street in 
 such circumstances was too significant for Stanley 
 Waring to overlook. Every impulse of his mind urged 
 him in the direction of Beddoes Street and the house 
 Vesta Copeland had acquired under such remarkable 
 circumstances. 
 
 184
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 One of Waring's first acts that day was to write to 
 the address given by Mr. James asking the tenant, Mr. 
 George Delane, to give him permission to go over 3 
 Beddoes Street on behalf of the owner, Miss Vesta 
 Copeland. 
 
 All through that day and very impatiently, Waring 
 remained in Missingham. His mind was disturbed by 
 the knowledge he alone possessed. His thoughts would 
 return to the room in the silent, deserted house, where 
 the second crime at Wayside Lodge awaited discovery. 
 The mutilated body there haunted his brain. The fact 
 that the crime was not discovered seemed to make him 
 in some degree responsible for the guilty secret. He 
 went along the quiet streets of Missingham and found 
 the people going about the easy round of a typical 
 day in village life, obviously with no knowledge of the 
 second horror perpetrated in their midst. He won- 
 dered how long the end of Cunning would remain un- 
 discovered and his excited fancy pictured the hours 
 drawing out into days and the days adding themselves 
 into weeks before the burden of his secret could be 
 shared by others. 
 
 The hours of the morning passed on and the village 
 remained the same. Stanley Waring, after posting his 
 letter, returned to lunch with his own people. After 
 lunch he set out with Vesta for a tramp over the hills, 
 for this long afternoon walk together had become a 
 part of the day's routine for the lovers, since Vesta 
 had come to reside at the school-house, and when War- 
 ing was at home. As they moved, side by side, through 
 the village street, Stanley knew, almost by instinct, that 
 some part of Paul Copeland's story would have to be 
 
 185
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 told to the girl who believed herself to be his daughter. 
 
 Vesta Copeland was quiet, and spoke but little. Her 
 usual flow of high spirits had received a check since 
 Waring had confessed the danger he believed to be 
 threatening both Vesta and himself. The mysterious 
 errand, taking him late in the evening to Wayside 
 Lodge, had disturbed her. She had also noted his grave 
 preoccupation of manner. Intuition told her all was 
 not well with her lover. She had decided to do as she 
 had done before, to raise the important issue, as they 
 walked together in the quiet country lanes. 
 
 "Stanley," she said, the thought in her mind indi- 
 cated by the troubled voice, "has it occurred to you 
 that I cannot go on like this indefinitely?" 
 
 He knew, as if she had already stated her thoughts, 
 the point Vesta Copeland was going to raise. 
 
 "You know I am living in your house and with your 
 parents," she insisted. "They have made me very wel- 
 come, and I know their hospitality is due to your in- 
 terest in me, in part, and no doubt in a measure they 
 were eager to help me through the difficult period after 
 my father's death." 
 
 "Yes " Waring answered. "You need not worry 
 
 about that. My mother is quite content to have you 
 stay as long as you choose to remain." 
 
 "I know she is very good," Vesta Copeland answered 
 sincerely. "She almost spoils me. But I cannot tres- 
 pass on her kindness much longer. The time is come 
 when I must ask myself two questions who am I, and 
 what is my place in the world. My father was a mys- 
 tery even to me. I grew up with him and took much 
 for granted. For instance, I knew so long as he lived 
 
 186
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 I should have ample means. But now I am in the dark. 
 No one seems to know who he was, and I see no hint 
 indicating the source of his income. Surely it has 
 struck you already that I am practically nameless and 
 without any visible means of subsistence." 
 
 Stanley Waiting's gaze was fixed on the girl's earnest 
 upturned face. 
 
 "I have thought of that," he admitted slowly. "I 
 have been wondering how much I ought to tell you. 
 There is a greater mystery surrounding your life and 
 parentage than you can imagine." 
 
 "You know?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," he replied ; "I know. I learned all the essen- 
 tials of your history from your father." 
 
 "And you have not told me," Vesta replied. "Is this 
 quite fair?" she asked. "I am no longer a child." 
 
 "I wanted to spare you considerable pain," he an- 
 swered indecisively. 
 
 "But you must know sooner or later I should be 
 compelled to ask." 
 
 "I had thought to be able to simplify matters so that 
 you would only need to be told the pleasant parts. I 
 regret to say my calculations have been upset, almost 
 during the last twenty-four hours." 
 
 Vesta looked at Waring with a quiet confidence dis- 
 tinctly reassuring. 
 
 "Do you think I am too weak to bear this secret 
 knowledge you possess," she asked, her voice vibrating. 
 
 "No," he answered simply. "I just desired you not 
 to know." 
 
 "Sooner or later, I must know," she said earnestly. 
 "And if there is to be no confidence between us how are 
 
 187
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 we to continue in any relationship? Tell me at 
 least, tell me sufficient to ease the growing sense of in- 
 security in my mind." 
 
 Stanley hesitated a moment. 
 
 "I will," he answered at last. "Only on one condi- 
 tion. The matter remains a secret. Whatever hap- 
 pens, you must trust me and take no action without 
 first consulting me. Will you promise that?" 
 
 "I am so sure all you do or may do will be in my in- 
 terests that I willingly promise," the girl said, pressing 
 his arm with the confidence of her strong, young love. 
 
 "Then, at once, I may tell you, Paul Copeland left 
 you quite independent," Stanley Waring began. "Mr. 
 James, the solicitor, tells me your father left property 
 invested in your name producing not less than 600 a 
 year. So, you see," he suggested gaily, "you are not a 
 pauper." 
 
 "Does Mr. James know my past?" she asked eagerly. 
 "Can I see him?" 
 
 "No," Waring answered grimly. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "He was murdered last night. I am sorry to see you 
 drifting into deep currents, but that is the truth." 
 
 "How do you know?" Vesta asked, shivering 
 slightly. 
 
 "The facts were in this morning's papers." 
 
 She looked at Stanley curiously and with rising 
 alarm. 
 
 "Did you expect this second murder?" she asked. 
 
 "No-^ -" he replied. 
 
 "Were you surprised?" she urged. 
 
 "No." 
 
 188
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "There is real danger to all connected with my fa- 
 ther that is what you meant last night. The secrets 
 in his life place all connected with him in danger." 
 
 "Yes to a certain extent, yes," Waring admitted. 
 "Believe me when I say this danger is the one reason 
 for my secrecy why I have hesitated to tell you all I 
 know." 
 
 "Wherein lies the danger?" the girl insisted. "Am I 
 in danger? Is your mother? Are you?" 
 
 "No no," Waring answered readily. "Your father 
 possessed a secret of great value to unscrupulous men. 
 The people who know the secret or might know it are 
 the people in actual danger." 
 
 "Who does know it?" 
 
 "This lawyer, Mr. James, he knew part of it," War- 
 ing admitted. 
 
 The girl's face suddenly paled. 
 
 "He died violently, you said ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And there are others who know?" the girl asked 
 nervously. 
 
 "To the best of my knowledge there are three people 
 who know now," Waring answered grudgingly. 
 
 "Do I know them?" 
 
 "No two are strangers," Waring explained. "They 
 want details of the secret. They make a knowledge of 
 your father's past dangerous." 
 
 The girl stopped suddenly and her pale face grew 
 more troubled. 
 
 "And the third?" she asked earnestly. 
 
 He was silent, cornered by her reasoning. 
 
 She did not wait for him to reply. 
 
 189
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "You are the third," she said, her voice strained and 
 anguished. "You go under the shadow of the danger 
 that fell upon my father and upon this lawyer I did not 
 know. It must not be. I will not have you exposed 
 to such peril for my sake. I insist on sharing this se- 
 cret and seeing how far you run this risk because of 
 me, how far I can prevent you from being drawn into 
 what must be a dark side of my father's life." 
 
 He tried to calm her by reassuring words. 
 
 "You must trust me, darling," he said. "My danger 
 is not so great. His enemies knew your father had the 
 secret. He died. They believed his solicitor must have 
 the secret and he died. They do not know I hold the 
 knowledge they want. They only suspect." 
 
 "You have the secret?" she insisted. "Then you are 
 in the same danger as these other two men were." 
 
 "No not the same danger, dearest. I have two ad- 
 vantages. The men who want this knowledge do not 
 know how I stand, how far I was in Copeland's confi- 
 dence." 
 
 "But they will find out," the girl said, panic-stricken 
 at the abyss her lover had revealed. "And they will 
 act." 
 
 "I have a second advantage. I know both these 
 men," Waring replied. "The lawyer did not." 
 
 Waring then told Vesta Copeland sufficient of the 
 facts to set the girl upon her guard. He told her first 
 that she was not Paul Copeland's daughter. The in- 
 formation seemed to be a relief to Vesta. After, he 
 told her what Paul Copeland had been and, in some 
 degree, outlined the reasons why he had been attacked. 
 He told her no details, nor did he hint of the existence 
 
 190
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 of the memoranda supplied by Copeland. Waring even 
 led Vesta to believe the facts had been communicated by 
 Paul Copeland while she was out of the room, on the 
 evening before the murder. 
 
 "You will see the need for secrecy," he said at last. 
 "I would like you to forget the whole of this conversa- 
 tion, but, short of that, I want you never to be sur- 
 prised into an admission of a knowledge of a single 
 fact. You will promise." 
 
 The girl hesitated. 
 
 "But why do you face the risk of this appalling situ- 
 ation?" she asked earnestly. 
 
 He looked grimly and absently away from the girl 
 toward the west and the afterglow of the setting sun. 
 
 "Because the chain is not complete," he answered. 
 "I cannot link the two men with their crime in such a 
 way as will bring them into the clutches of the law. 
 And, more, I think a word of indiscreet inquiry made 
 carelessly would set them scurrying to cover and help 
 them to escape." 
 
 "Why not make the inquiry through the police and 
 have done with them?" she asked earnestly. 
 
 His face set with the stern purpose of the hunter, 
 with the power of a man ready to accept dangers, with 
 the eagerness of one who answers a challenge to pit rea- 
 son against cunning, courage against lawlessness, in- 
 tegrity against moral degeneration. 
 
 "There are two reasons," he answered simply. "If I 
 give the information, my game will be frightened away, 
 but only for a time. I shall still know what I know and 
 they will come back to me. I shall have to face the 
 same danger." 
 
 191
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "And jour other reason?" she urged, pride lighting 
 her eyes as she looked into his strong face. 
 
 "The other reason is, I want these two scoundrels to 
 fall to my hand. I want to be certain when the time 
 comes that I have drawn a ring round them so there can 
 be no chance of their escape. You will be silent?" 
 
 "Nothing will turn you back?" she asked, her voice 
 shaking with emotion. 
 
 "No, I cannot turn back," he answered. 
 
 There was a silence between them for some minutes 
 and now their faces were turned toward the village. 
 
 "No," she agreed, and Vesta's voice was firm, for her 
 spirit had caught some of his purpose. "I see that 
 
 now; you cannot turn back. And " she stopped, 
 
 her words ending in a sigh. 
 
 "You will be silent ?" he urged anxiously. 
 
 "Yes," the word was whispered, and she insisted on 
 hanging upon his arm as they walked on, perhaps a 
 little fearfully, as if she expected his enemies to strike 
 Waring as they traversed the road to Missingham in 
 the sleepy twilight.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 i 
 
 AS Vesta passed with Stanley Waring into 
 the village, both, familiar with its routine, 
 realized that Missingham was by no means 
 its usual self. 
 
 Something had happened to disturb the placid calm 
 of its even round. The main street was in the throes of 
 a great public agitation. The thoroughfare presented 
 such signs of agitation as one may observe when the 
 predatory cat suddenly appears among the gentle pig- 
 eons. 
 
 Along the main street business seemed to have been 
 suspended. Tradespeople and their assistants stood 
 at the open doors of their shops, gossiping earnestly 
 with customers and passers-by. Village folk had left 
 the dim interiors of their thatched cottages. Old men 
 and young were making their way toward the lane 
 leading to Wayside Lodge. Others stopped in groups 
 to talk excitedly, though, as Waring and Vesta passed, 
 both noticed their slow Buckinghamshire drawl was 
 hushed, as if the conversation being carried on had 
 about it the elements of the dreadful. 
 
 Stanley Waring would have piloted Vesta through 
 the usually busy thoroughfare, for he was painfully 
 aware of the reason fdr the display of public excite- 
 ment. He knew full well the village had once more 
 passed into the shadow of a crime that held it pleas- 
 antly awed and spellbound. The secret of the study at 
 
 193
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Wayside Lodge was a secret no longer and the story 
 of the latest horror was passing from lip to lip as 
 quickly as only rumor with its myriad tongues can 
 travel. 
 
 Vesta saw the unusual signs of public excitement with 
 very natural interest. She observed the village people 
 looked at her in the failing light with a curiosity akin 
 to pity. Once, coming upon an excited group talking 
 loudly but freely, she overheard the men using the 
 dreadful word murder. As they recognized her the 
 sinister talk suddenly died away into a disturbing 
 silence. 
 
 If Stanley Waring could have had his own way he 
 would have hurried Vesta through the village and have 
 left the news to circulate until it reached Vesta in the 
 shelter of her temporary home. Vesta, however, had 
 a will and initiative of her own, and she took prompt 
 action to satisfy her very feminine curiosity. 
 
 Before Stanley could realize her intention, Vesta 
 stopped in front of the village grocer's shop and asked 
 the storekeeper point blank the reason of the apparent 
 public disturbance. 
 
 Ramus Sturt was talking to his assistants and a 
 group of intimates eagerly canvassing the details of the 
 new sensation with the zest of a gossip. All looked 
 curiously at the girl and hesitated awkwardly before 
 replying to her direct question. 
 
 "Haven't you heard?" Sturt said, at last, nervously 
 fingering his chin. His expression was the same she 
 had observed on the faces of other villagers a vague, 
 unspoken, unaccountable sympathy. 
 
 "No," Vesta answered decisively. "From your man- 
 194
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ner I judge something has happened which I should 
 not be told." 
 
 The trader looked at the girl, indecision in his very 
 action, and from her face his eyes strayed to Stanley 
 Waring's. 
 
 "No," Sturt said at last. "It is something you will 
 be told sooner or later; only I do not like the task of 
 being the first to break painful news to you, miss. I 
 reckon you have suffered enough without having to hear 
 about this last matter, and to have all the horrors of 
 your own trouble brought up again." 
 
 Vesta's face was white and anxious, but the trader 
 had said enough to make her determined to hear more. 
 
 "Then it does affect me?" she asked urgently. 
 
 "Well, in a way, yes, and in a way, no," the trader 
 answered, scraping his chin. "You see, miss, there's 
 been another murder at your old house, Wayside 
 Lodge. Young Mr. Simpson, Mr. Abraham's clerk, 
 had to go over the house this afternoon, and he found 
 the body." 
 
 "Whose body?" Vesta asked quickly. 
 
 "Ah! that no one seems to know," answered one of 
 the bystanders, his mind fascinated by the mystery, his 
 gossiping tongue eager to take its share in recounting 
 the latest strange story to disturb the even tenor of 
 Missingham life, to some one unfamiliar with the de- 
 tails. 
 
 Stanley Waring remained by Vesta's side. He did 
 not try to stop the excited flow of narrative, knowing 
 full well Vesta must sooner or later learn all the de- 
 tails. Indeed, to quicken up the gossips with the hope 
 that the end should soon be in sight for village tales 
 
 195
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 take a long time in the telling he asked a few judicious 
 leading questions. 
 
 "Arid that's all they know, miss," Sturt concluded, 
 pleased to have an opportunity of telling the story for 
 the tenth time. Indeed, he said the words grudgingly, 
 for once started he had enjoyed recounting the facts 
 and had some regret when the center of interest shifted 
 from himself. 
 
 "And they do say," added a villager, standing near, 
 "the dead man was strangled by a piano wire and had 
 a cross upon his face, the same as " 
 
 The gossip pulled himself up, suddenly made aware 
 of the decencies of the situation, by the accumulated 
 horror shown on Vesta Copeland's pallid face. 
 
 Vesta did not ask further questions. She was sway- 
 ing slightly. Her eyes were glazed with tears. The 
 villagers put down her emotions to the train of recollec- 
 tions excited by the obvious relationship of the second 
 crime with the first. She turned to Stanley with an 
 unspoken appeal in her eyes, and he slipped his arm 
 through hers and they walked off down the lighted vil- 
 lage street, followed curiously by the glances of the 
 people who remained to tell and retell all the circum- 
 stances of the new horror with infinite relish as they 
 lingered about shop and cottage doors. 
 
 It was not emotion caused by the association of the 
 second sinister happening in the house that had been 
 her home with the shock Vesta Copeland had received 
 on the night she had discovered the nature of her step- 
 father's end. Vesta Copeland's mind was in a panic 
 and her nerves were unstrung because she guessed this 
 ruthless second murder indicated the measure of the 
 
 196
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 danger her lover had to face. This thought found 
 expression as soon as she had run the gantlet of staring 
 villagers and, hanging breathlessly on the arm of War- 
 ing, had gained the privacy of the road leading to the 
 King's school-house. 
 
 "Stanley," she gasped, at last, "you knew this. You 
 were at Wayside Lodge last night." 
 
 "Yes," he answered ; "I knew." 
 
 "This crime is the work of the men who seek the 
 knowledge you possess?" 
 
 "Yes," he admitted grudgingly. 
 
 "And yet you say there is no danger," she urged. 
 "You you were there when the man who committed 
 this second crime might have been about. This man 
 they have found might as easily have been you. Dear- 
 est, let us leave Missingham, let us go away at once, let 
 us hide from these monsters. I shall live in dread of 
 hearing you have paid the penalty of sharing this 
 guilty secret. Already three lives have been sacrificed 
 to this legacy from my stepfather's past." 
 
 "Fly!" Waring said, his firm lips setting. "Why 
 should we hide?" he asked proudly. "Paul Copeland 
 tried to hide. On your own showing, he had all the 
 world in which to conceal himself, but they found 
 him." 
 
 "But, don't you see, this is the third life," she 
 moaned. "The next may easily be yours. I beg of you 
 not to interfere ; to leave this -secret and all it concerns, 
 to step out of this dreadful area of danger." 
 
 He tried to soothe her, for Vesta was badly shaken 
 by the knowledge of the murder almost at their door. 
 
 "You must trust me," he said at last, as she grew 
 
 197
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 more calm. "My flight would be an admission of my 
 knowledge. If we went away they would follow us as 
 they followed Paul Copeland, and the danger would be 
 fixed on you in equal share as my companion. Our best 
 chance is silence. Remember, one rash word or action 
 diverts the attention of these ruthless men to us. By 
 stopping here and watching discreetly, the danger, such 
 as it is, is confined to myself and the risk to you is mini- 
 mized. And, besides, I would sooner take the luck of a 
 desperate game than fly before these hounds and lead a 
 hole and corner life, as your stepfather did, as a con- 
 sequence of his actions." 
 
 "But this third man who is he?" Vesta asked. 
 "Why, you must have been about Wayside Lodge when 
 these dreadful people were moving about." 
 
 "I was," Waring answered. "That is the bright side 
 of the situation. I knoir these people and their needs. 
 Already I can anticipate their next course of action. I 
 knew last night they would visit Wayside Lodge. I 
 was there when this thing happened. I did not know 
 this murder had taken place until it was over until 
 too late for me to interfere, but I have one link in the 
 chain of evidence because I know two facts that will 
 remain a secret to the police, in their investigations of 
 this crime. I have seen the only man who could have 
 committed this third murder, and I know who the man 
 is who now lies there dead." 
 
 "He was one who knew the secret?" Vesta asked curi- 
 ously. 
 
 "He was one of three who searched," Stanley an- 
 swered. "You need waste no pity on him for he shared 
 in the attack on Paul Copeland, and he was murdered 
 
 198
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 last night on the scene of the crime, because one of his 
 partners believed he had betrayed the interests of 
 the rest." 
 
 "They quarreled?" Vesta asked, struck by the inti- 
 macy of Waring's knowledge. 
 
 "Yes," he replied; "and in that lies my best safe- 
 guard. These men no longer trust each other, and with 
 each crime the situation becomes more desperate for 
 them and more likely to lead to another rupture." 
 
 With Stanley Waring's view of the situation Vesta 
 Copeland had to be content. 
 
 Meanwhile, in Missingham, rumor floated round the 
 town, the plain facts of the story growing fabulously 
 as they were told and retold, until they bore no rela- 
 tion to the truth so far as it emerged. The police ar- 
 rived hot foot from the market town nearby, and were 
 busy getting what suggestions they could glean to- 
 gether with a view to piecing up the strange mystery 
 that Fate had wound about the quiet life of Missing- 
 ham. Late in the evening a few newspaper men drifted 
 into the village from London, attracted by the possi- 
 bilities indicated by a second murder following rapidly 
 upon the previous unexplained crime. And all through 
 the evening Stanley Waring remained at home, striving 
 by his manner to reassure Vesta Copeland. 
 
 During the evening he had time to study the further 
 details of the murder of Mr. James, the lawyer, in his 
 rooms at Temple Court, and spent the hours after the 
 ladies of the school-house had retired in considering the 
 possible relationship of the two crimes to the plans of 
 the Red Colonel. 
 
 Of one thing he was now certain. The Red Colonel 
 
 199
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 was moving rapidly and quickly. Each one of his ac- 
 tions was a challenge to Waring. The time had come 
 for him to act with the same swift silence and to pit 
 his brain fearlessly against the relentless cunning of 
 this leader in the underworld of crime. 
 
 As if to confirm his judgment, two incidents hap- 
 pened the next morning. 
 
 The first letter he opened was addressed from 32 
 Beddoes Street, and signed by George Delane. In a 
 flowing, cultured hand, Mr. Delane, the tenant, said he 
 would be charmed to have Stanley overlook Miss Cope- 
 land's property, and suggested the afternoon of the 
 day of the receipt of the letter, as he was going away 
 for some days. 
 
 Stanley Waring, looking over the letter, was struck 
 by its easy civility and decided to go to town at once. 
 
 Just as he was rising from the breakfast table the 
 maid brought in a card. 
 
 "The gentleman is waiting," she said, standing at his 
 elbow. 
 
 Waring read the card. It bore the name of Victor 
 Ganton, and underneath were printed the words, The 
 Daily Intelligence, the title of a leading daily paper. 
 
 "A newspaper man," Stanley Waring said to himself, 
 dubiously, wondering what the caller could have to do 
 with himself. 
 
 "Ask Mr. Ganton to wait," he added aloud. "I will 
 see him in a few minutes."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WHEN Stanley Waring went to the reception 
 room into which Victor Ganton had been 
 shown, he found himself confronted by a 
 man of considerable personality. 
 
 The newspaper reporter was a tall, lean, tired-look- 
 ing man. Indeed the lean quality about him was the 
 most striking feature. He had a long lean head, a 
 long lean body, and long lean legs. The face was 
 chiefly remarkable because the whole effect produced 
 by the expression was one of careless, expressionless 
 indifference. The color of the skin suggested a man 
 who had never had enough sleep. A long straggling 
 moustache softened, and indeed hid, the outline of a 
 strong, rugged mouth. The voice of the man was a 
 flat monotone. When Ganton asked questions he put 
 them in tones which seemed to indicate that he found 
 the task of even thinking them out a horrible bore. 
 When he listened to the answers, his languid air of in- 
 attention implied that he had lost interest in his own 
 questions long before he heard the replies. 
 
 Ganton was a special writer on The Daily Intelli- 
 gence, whose business in life was to "investigate crimes" 
 for his paper. For this work he drew a heavy salary 
 a salary rarely paid to newspaper men. People who 
 knew this and did not watch his work wondered how 
 he earned such a salary and why he did not lose his 
 appointment. Those who employed him and knew his 
 
 201
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 work did not wonder they knew. In his own field 
 Ganton was a genius. This seeming air of indifference 
 was an elaborate cloak serving to disarm. Behind the 
 tired, sleepy mask of a face he turned to the world 
 was a singularly alert and resolute brain. No man 
 could look more jaded than Ganton and at the same 
 time be more wide awake. His vigilant brain was capable 
 both of concentration and insight and his manner, de- 
 liberately studied, suggested he lacked both. 
 
 As Waring advanced toward Ganton, the reporter's 
 languid manner at first sight deceived him. He saw 
 the long gray face and the lean body, noted the relaxa- 
 tion of the slim figure as Ganton reclined lazily in an 
 easy-chair, and observed that, while he was well dressed, 
 Ganton's clothes had signs of inattention to brushing 
 and pressing about them, sufficient to imply that he 
 sometimes slept in them. 
 
 Waring, during the last few weeks, had had to sup- 
 plement a taste for analysis, developed during his hos- 
 pital training, by much clear reasoning and close ob- 
 servation. He had become impressed by the resources 
 of the Red Colonel to such an extent that every 
 stranger had to pass a close critical inspection. War- 
 ing had begun to take nothing for granted. And he 
 was not deceived by Ganton's professional manner and, 
 indeed, realized the possibilities of the man before he 
 spoke. He knew, however indifferent Ganton might 
 seem, the keen gray eyes of the man were sleeplessly 
 vigilant. 
 
 Ganton on his part realized, as Waring stepped 
 toward him, that Waring was out of the run of the 
 men he examined, and would not be "easy" a word 
 
 202
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Ganton reserved for men who would part with the 
 information he most desired without calling for any 
 exertion of his own mental force. 
 
 Waring looked from the card to Ganton, and Gan- 
 ton, by a slow movement of his lazy length of frame, 
 rose from the easy chair. 
 
 "Mr. Stanley Waring," Ganton said, indifferently. 
 "Dr. Stanley Waring." 
 
 "Yes," answered Waring. "I am at a loss to know 
 what business you have with me," he added, with a 
 smile. 
 
 "You have noted I am on the staff of The Daily In- 
 telligence," Ganton drawled. "Point of fact, sir, my 
 wretched game in life is to investigate crime. I am a 
 sort of ink-stained detective, unofficial, and, if I may 
 say so, successful, if I get the complete story before 
 the police have started guessing." 
 
 Waring nodded his head appreciatively. 
 
 "Yes I guessed that," he said. "How does your 
 mission affect me?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know," Ganton said. "I'm down here 
 looking into this Wayside Lodge crime. I was here 
 over the last one. I have a sort of notion you might 
 be able to help me." 
 
 "How?" asked Waring. 
 
 The other's voice grew more indifferent. His spoken 
 words were clipped and slovenly. He seemed to be 
 tired with the very thought of putting the question. 
 
 "My idea is you might tell me something about the 
 er little red cross." 
 
 A week before Waring, faced by a query so closely 
 relating to his own thoughts, would have flushed and 
 
 203
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 grown visibly embarrassed. Now, so great had be- 
 come the need for self-control, his only feeling was one 
 of added respect for the lounging man who masked a 
 vital question with such sublime indifference. He shot 
 a quick glance at the tired-looking reporter who ap- 
 peared to have slept in his clothes, and momentarily 
 found the seemingly lazy eyes submitting him to a 
 deadly scrutiny. It was only a glimpse, for the keen 
 eyes grew vague and the glance wandered off into an 
 indifferent survey of the features of the room. War- 
 ing's manner did not change. 
 
 "I am afraid," Waring began, "you have me at a 
 slight disadvantage. I do not quite see what you 
 mean." 
 
 "No ?" the other said, as if the matter were of slight 
 importance. "It occurred to me you might have 
 known. The little red cross is a feature I find peculiar. 
 I thought it might have puzzled you." 
 
 Stanley Waring did not answer. He had suffered a 
 close, indirect cross-examination at the hands of the 
 Red Colonel, and he knew now, as he knew then, Gan- 
 ton, with a different manner, was there to ask vital 
 questions as though they were mere trifles, light as air 
 thistledown, borne along by the drifting breeze. 
 
 "You have nothing to say about the cross the little 
 red cross?" the reporter asked, idly. 
 
 "No your question conveys no significance to me 
 beyond the fact that a red cross was upon the fore- 
 head of Paul Copeland, the first man who was murdered 
 in Wayside Lodge." 
 
 "Yes that is why I came to you," Ganton said, 
 quietly. "I think I ought to tell you there are red 
 
 204
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 crosses on the face of the dead man who lies at Way- 
 side Lodge now. You have heard that." 
 
 "I have heard of the murder, but I have not heard 
 any of the details," Stanley countered. 
 
 A slow smile passed over Ganton's impassive face 
 it might have been an expression of reluctant admira- 
 tion. 
 
 "Ah! it's no use, then," he said, slowly. "But 
 here is another odd thing. That solicitor, Mr. James 
 the man found shot in Temple Court last night 
 had the same mark upon his face." 
 
 "I have no details of the occurrence," Waring an- 
 swered, quietly. 
 
 Again Waring noted the smile flickering on Gan- 
 ton's face. Again he gathered an impression that Gan- 
 ton had tried another fly and was smiling with an ap- 
 preciation for the fish that would not rise. 
 
 "You do not trust me, Mr. Waring," Ganton said, 
 almost sadly. 
 
 "Again the advantage is yours," Waring replied. "I 
 do not quite see the drift of your suggestion." 
 
 The other man rose as if he had suddenly lost inter- 
 est in the interview. 
 
 "I think I must be pushing on," he said, at last. "I 
 have a lot of ground to cover to-day." 
 
 Though he had risen to go, Ganton still lingered, 
 and had apparently forgotten his immediate object. 
 When he spoke again he seemed to be thinking aloud. 
 
 "Don't you think it peculiar that three men should 
 lose their lives in so short a period and should each be 
 marked, after death, in the same way?" he asked, 
 dreamily. 
 
 205
 
 THE RED COLONEL, 
 
 "Yes I do," Waring admitted, watching his man 
 closely. "I certainly do, if the facts are as you sug- 
 gest." 
 
 "Yes yes," said Ganton, the matter apparently 
 growing of less consequence. "You do not know the 
 facts ; no, evidently, you do not know the facts. But 
 they are certainly peculiar. You must excuse me for 
 troubling you, but I had an odd notion that is all. I 
 thought, knowing Copeland as you did, you might have 
 a line on these strange happenings, but I am mistaken 
 yes, yes, I'm wrong. You will excuse me for troub- 
 ling you. I figured it out this way. I'm rather old at 
 this game." Ganton's voice grew more weary as he 
 went on. "I was up against it twenty-five years ago 
 in New York. A cub reporter in a big city sees a 
 lot, you know, and well, I had a taste for nosing mys- 
 teries. And I remember a set of murders, and there 
 was a red cross in all of them. And there was a Red 
 Colonel. I suppose you have never heard of the Red 
 Colonel eh ?" The narrative tailed off into a patheti- 
 cally indifferent query. 
 
 Again, for a second, Waring saw Ganton's wander- 
 ing glance resting on him with a fixed, scrutinizing 
 gleam. 
 
 "No; no, you would not," Ganton went on in his 
 dreamy monotone. "You are too young, and yet 
 yes, I thought you might have heard from Copeland. 
 But I got a line on them in New York there was the 
 Red Colonel, and a man they called the Warbler, and 
 there was this man Copeland who died and there 
 was also a man named Cunning." 
 
 "All this is very interesting," Waring said, grudg- 
 206
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ingly. "You say you investigated Copeland's death?" 
 
 "Yes," said Ganton, indifferently. 
 
 "Well, I think the matter so interesting that I am 
 surprised you did not tell the story at the time in The 
 Daily Intelligence," Waring said, smoothly. 
 
 "Ah!" ejaculated Ganton, and his voice suddenly 
 changed. There was a shade more snap in it. "I 
 thought I should interest you." 
 
 He dwelt with a slight stress on the pronoun. 
 
 "Though I had a line on them, I never saw the Red 
 Colonel. I never saw Copeland until he was dead. I 
 never saw Cunning. But I did get a straight look at 
 the Warbler," Ganton continued. "When Copeland 
 went out, I knew the old gang were at work, and I 
 have been on the story ever since. I did not tell the 
 details in The Daily Intelligence because I know a 
 bigger story lies behind; and the Red Cross will come 
 again and again before I tell the history of the Red 
 Four. I suppose you have never thought you might 
 be marked by it eh?" 
 
 Ganton fired his last question as if it were a mere 
 grim afterthought. 
 
 "Why do you say that?" Stanley asked, sternly. 
 
 "Because I know," Ganton answered, and his mask 
 of indifference had slipped away. "I have a line on the 
 Warbler. I have come to you believing your innocent 
 knowledge of Copeland may have put you onto a live 
 wire I could also handle. No use eh; no use?" 
 
 Stanley, strangely impressed, did not answer. 
 
 "You are silent," Ganton said, and once again the 
 faintest of smiles flickered on his pale features. "Your 
 sort of face does not lie if there is a way out." 
 
 207
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "I can only say I' refuse to be drawn into this 
 strange story," Waring answered. "It may be as you 
 say; but the onus of proof is on you. My connection 
 with Copeland has taken me far enough into this under- 
 world of crime. I have no taste for a further examina- 
 tion of your mystery attractive as you make it, if I 
 may say so." 
 
 "You cannot help me?" Ganton urged, and he had 
 dropped his indirect method the mask of unconcern. 
 
 "No," Waring replied, positively. 
 
 "I thought so, Dr. Waring," Ganton said, coolly. 
 "If I may say so, you are discreet. You know what 
 you are up against. In the main, I agree with your 
 decision. You do not trust me, and you desire some 
 proof of my right to cut into your game. I accept 
 your attitude." 
 
 "But do you not think there may be some mistake 
 on your part about what you are pleased to call my 
 game?" Waring said, surprised at the man's statement. 
 
 "No," Ganton answered, positively. "I never make 
 mistakes. I will not press you now, Dr. Waring. I 
 would prefer you to think the matter over. I am a 
 judge of men. It may sound like boasting, but I am, 
 and I know an oyster at sight. I shall come to you 
 again, and when we meet we shall deal be sure of 
 that. I will prove to you where I stand by my actions. 
 I know you are in the game to stay there, and the op- 
 portunity of proving my integrity will come. In the 
 meantime, I have several loose ends here in Missingham, 
 and, with your permission, I'll see how far I can work 
 them with profit. Good-by." 
 
 The long newspaper man held out his hand. 
 208
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Stanley hesitated a moment and then put out his 
 own and the two men shook. 
 
 Ganton's words, on leaving, were very suggestive. 
 
 "Do you know, I had an odd notion you would not 
 shake," he said, referring to their parting hand clasp. 
 "I have you figured out as a man who sees every 
 stranger as the Red Colonel or one of his hirelings. 
 I guess you shivered at the possibility of a handshake, 
 believing it a first step to putting you down. Well 
 I don't blame you. I have been next to this lot before, 
 and you will want to keep your eyes peeled and your 
 wool on if you are going into this on the right side. 
 So long, doctor!" 
 
 Without another word, the man left Stanley, who 
 followed him to the hall and watched the long figure 
 stroll lazily out of the garden into the quiet road 
 leading to JV^issingham.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 STANLEY WARING walked into 32 Beddoes 
 Street in the afternoon of the same day. Bed- 
 does Street is a typical West End thoroughfare, 
 with many fine town houses, prosperous in their way, 
 but in no wise aping the splendor of Bayswater or Park 
 Lane. 
 
 Number 32 was a house no more nor less distinctive 
 than the rest. It was a stone-fronted construction, 
 some four stories in height, built on a plan peculiar to 
 London. The basement was fenced with an iron rail- 
 ing, an opening in which gave access to tradesmen. 
 The terse announcement "no bottles" appeared on a 
 card displayed in the door leading to the kitchen. The 
 rest of the house was built on the same familiar plan. 
 The window of the ground floor room was flat to the 
 wall; above, on the drawing-room floor, the two win- 
 dows formed tiny bows and were protected by a bal- 
 cony; above were two bedroom floors. 
 
 Number 32 Beddoes Street looked a snug town house 
 of the average type, capable of being used by a family 
 for a season in town and large enough to permit of 
 entertaining on a fairly ambitious scale. There were 
 signs of prosperity about. The stonework was newly 
 colored. All the windows were fitted with plant boxes, 
 and these, no doubt, rioted with the color of a succes- 
 sion of blooms in the summer. The house, judged by 
 the glimpses one might get of the interior of the lower 
 
 210
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 rooms from the outside, was richly furnished on con- 
 ventional lines. There was nothing secretive or sinis- 
 ter about the place ; indeed, all the curtains were drawn 
 well back, and gave to the premises an air of frankly 
 challenging the criticism of those outside. Despite the 
 amiable character and conventionally respectable ap- 
 pearance of Number 32, Waring rang the doorbell with 
 a quickening of the pulse that suggested he was just a 
 little excited. 
 
 A trim housemaid opened the door a personable, 
 attractive girl, and the sort of servant one would ex- 
 pect to see in a prosperous, well-kept home of good 
 repute. 
 
 Waring stated his business and was shown into a 
 dining room, which he examined carefully in the inter- 
 val of waiting. For the first time Waring experienced 
 a chill of disappointment. He had come there firmly 
 believing the house would reveal some portion of Paul 
 Copeland's secret. He found himself asking the simple 
 question, "why." His only guide had been the one 
 unilluminating line, Fl 32 Bed R. M., printed under 
 Copeland's seemingly meaningless design. The signifi- 
 cance of the central "32 Bed" had alone drawn him 
 to this house, but for the first time Waring paused to 
 wonder how far his investigations were likely to carry 
 him, with more than a strong leaven of doubt. 
 
 As representing a new owner, he had a right to look 
 round a right cordially granted by the unknown ten- 
 ant, George Delane. But what purpose was such a 
 tour of inspection likely to serve ? There was certainly 
 nothing significant about the room into which he had 
 been shown. It was a dining room, typical of any 
 
 211
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 prosperous household, correct rather than tasteful, 
 following the conventional ideas of furnishing and try- 
 ing no experiments. Highly polished table, flowers in 
 the center; heavy substantial chairs; a massive side- 
 board; quiet but rich carpets and rugs, a few easy 
 chairs by the fireplace, and a number of conscientious 
 pictures on the walls. Stanley Waring realized, with a 
 chill of disappointment cooling his anticipation, that 
 he would see more rooms of the same character, cor- 
 rectly furnished for their different purposes and noth- 
 ing more. And he admitted he had no real justifica- 
 tion for expecting to see anything more startling and 
 suggestive. 
 
 He was busy with these thoughts when the door sud- 
 denly opened and a man, whose footsteps were noise- 
 less, came into the room. 
 
 Again Stanley Waring was disappointed. The new- 
 comer was a manservant in a neat, unostentatious liv- 
 ery. He looked like a butler, slightly stout, white of 
 face, neatly shaved, and scrupulously well brushed. 
 His manners were quiet and subdued, but .... 
 
 Even as Waring spoke to the man he realized there 
 was a difference. This man had the appearance of a 
 servant and something more. Though he was slightly 
 stout, he was a big man and strong. Though his voice 
 was soft and keyed to a deferential pitch, there was an 
 edge to it. The lower jaw of the face gave to the 
 mouth a suggestion that here was not a subject man, a 
 servant ! The eyes were sunk and small, ferret-like, set 
 under heavy brows. There was a curious, sly, observ- 
 ant air about them they gave a suggestion of crafty 
 watchfulness and some cunning. The long flat nose
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 of the man had been broken. An old scar still held 
 an angry color on the flattened bridge and the contour 
 had departed from the original shape. There was an- 
 other scar on the temple. 
 
 A man who has had adventures, Waring found him- 
 self thinking as he noted these marks suggesting vio- 
 lence on the face of a man who appeared to be a quiet, 
 respectful servant. 
 
 "I came by permission of Mr. Delane," Stanley said 
 to the servant. As he spoke he held out the letter 
 suggesting he should call. "Mr. Delane kindly gave 
 me permission to go over the premises on behalf of the 
 owner, who has only recently undertaken the respon- 
 sibility of administering her own properties." 
 
 "Yes, sir," the man answered. "Mr. Delane told me 
 of your coming. His orders were I should show you 
 everything you desired to see about the house. Have 
 you any special desires? Is there anything you par- 
 ticularly wish to see?" 
 
 Waring was confirmed in his early reading of the 
 man's character. This butler was no automaton of a 
 servant. As he asked the questions, his little eyes were 
 fixed inquiringly and he was undoubtedly scrutinizing 
 Waring's face. 
 
 "No," answered Waring. "I just want to get some 
 idea of the general character of the property. The 
 present owner is not familiar with this house, which 
 happens to be standing in her name. If you would 
 just show me over the rooms, I shall be obliged." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Without further speech, the butler began to lead the 
 way out of the room.
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "This is the dining room, as you see," he said, wav- 
 ing his arm to take in the room they were leaving. 
 "Behind," he added, "is a smaller room. We use it as 
 a study, lounge, and writing room." 
 
 He opened the door as he spoke. Waring glanced 
 inside, more and more convinced of the abortive char- 
 acter of his investigations. The proceedings had de- 
 generated into the kind of thing a man experiences who 
 has "orders to view" desirable mansions from an estate 
 agent. 
 
 Indeed, Waring had come to the conclusion that his 
 investigations would carry him but little further. 
 
 On the first floor the butler passed the front room. 
 
 "That is the drawing-room," he said. "This is a 
 bachelor house. Mr. er Delane lived alone so the 
 room is more of a library and smoke room than any- 
 thing else. Mr. Delane's tenant is in there now it is 
 sublet, you know." 
 
 Stanley was just a little surprised at this informa- 
 tion. He did not know. But he dismissed the matter 
 without inquiry, though he noticed again the gleaming, 
 crafty eyes were watching him narrowly. 
 
 "You may look in as we come down," the butler 
 added, moving on to the room at the back. 
 
 So Stanley was piloted, courteously enough, from 
 floor to floor, through a variety of rooms, all well fur- 
 nished, neatly correct, and indicating very little beyond 
 an obvious and solid prosperity on the part of the 
 tenant. 
 
 The butler opened the door, said what the room was 
 used for, stood back, and left Waring to look inside. 
 It seemed a grotesque itinerary to Waring, who, by the 
 
 214
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 time they were getting to the higher floors, began to 
 feel very much like a house agent's assistant. 
 
 All the time he was conscious of the close scrutiny 
 of the apparently obsequious male servant. Sometimes, 
 turning suddenly, to resume his progress through 
 the house, Waring had an uneasy feeling that the 
 man had almost been surprised in the act of smiling at 
 him. 
 
 "Billiard room," the butler would say, opening the 
 door. Then they were in the bedrooms and then near 
 the attics. 
 
 "Servants' bedrooms," the attentive butler remarked, 
 with a sweep of his hands, taking it for granted the 
 intruder would not desire to carry his investigations 
 further. 
 
 "Thank you," answered Waring. "I need not trou- 
 ble you to open them. I think I have formed a satis- 
 factory opinion of the nature of the property." 
 
 "As you please, sir." 
 
 The butler led the way down the stairs, his felt- 
 covered shoes making no sound on the thick carpets. 
 
 At last they were back on the first floor. Stanley 
 Waring had been disappointed by the possibilities of 
 his search. His one desire was to leave the house as 
 soon as possible. He felt too much like an aimless 
 intruder under the critical, watchful eye of the butler. 
 He had almost overlooked the fact that there was a 
 room in the house he had not seen and was passing the 
 door on his way to the hall. 
 
 If the truth must be told, Waring had forgotten the 
 house, the butler and everything about the place as he 
 descended the stairs. His mind was working over the 
 
 215
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 letters and figures under the design. He had vainly 
 thought they formed a clew and that access to 32 Bed- 
 does Street was the key to the mystery. He was run- 
 ning the line over in his mind Fl 32 Bed R. M. 
 and wondering in his own mind if he had jumped to 
 an abortive conclusion. 
 
 "One moment, sir," said the deferential voice at his 
 elbow. "First floor, sir ; you did not see the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 Wai-ing's mind was just repeating the line of letters 
 and figures he believed to have some relation to the 
 house he was inspecting. 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" he said, absently, for he had 
 not distinctly heard the suggestion. 
 
 "First floor, sir," the butler repeated. "You did 
 not see the drawing-room." 
 
 "You said it was occupied," Waring answered. "I 
 don't think I need disturb the tenant." 
 
 "Oh, no disturbance, I assure you. My orders were 
 I should let you see the rooms and then bring you 
 down to master. I think he desired to place himself 
 at your disposal, sir ; in case there were any questions 
 you might like to ask." 
 
 "It seems a pity to trouble, Mr. er " Waring 
 
 was saying aloud. His brain was working once again 
 over the clew, "Fl 32 Bed R. M." 
 
 Then suddenly Waring found himself very wide 
 awake. 
 
 "Why, how very stupid of me," Waring said, aloud, 
 the words escaping him involuntarily. 
 
 The other was watching him closely. 
 
 "Pardon, sir; I do not quite understand," the man 
 
 216
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 said, and Waring noticed the rasp in his voice, while 
 his eyes indicated strained attention. 
 
 "Ah! I was not speaking to you," Waring an- 
 swered, conciliatory at once. "I was thinking of some- 
 thing I should have done this morning. Perhaps I 
 ought to see the tenant, since he is so obliging. If 
 you will find out whether it is convenient now, I shall 
 be . ..." 
 
 "Certainly, sir." 
 
 The butler knocked on the closed door. 
 
 A voice inside called out, "Come in," peremptorily. 
 
 For a minute Waring stood alone on the landing. 
 He could hear a muttered conversation going on in 
 the room between the man inside and his servant. He 
 paid but little attention, for in a flash of inspiration, 
 or sudden understanding, Waring had read a meaning 
 into another part of the cryptic line. 
 
 "This is the first floor," he was saying to himself, 
 silently. "Fl 32 Bed R. M. Now that is certainly 
 significant. Floor one, 32 Beddoes Street makes a 
 little more sense of the line, whatever 'R. M.' may 
 mean." 
 
 His interest in the commonplace, prosperous town 
 house had suddenly grown acute. 
 
 At that moment the man servant came back to the 
 door and threw it open. 
 
 "Come in, sir," he said. "Mr. Gaythorne will see 
 you." 
 
 Stanley Waring did not hear the phrase; he was 
 still debating in his own mind the plausibility of his 
 reading of the first two sections of the line that held 
 Paul Copeland's secret. 
 
 217
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 He walked forward automatically into a large room 
 crowded with furniture, books and bric-a-brac. In a 
 deep-seated leather chair a man was sitting before the 
 fire, his legs sprawling out to the beaten brass kerb. 
 Waring could see by his shoulders and arms that the 
 occupier of the room was wearing a dressing gown. 
 It was of heavy blue flannel, with white piping orna- 
 menting the collar and cuffs. A strong odor of cigar 
 smoke hung about the apartment. 
 
 "Mr. Waring, sir," said the servant. 
 
 "Ah, yes," said a voice, which Waring recognized at 
 once. "Mr. Waring." 
 
 The figure in the chair stood up, rising slowly, and 
 turned toward Waring. 
 
 "Why! of all the odd coincidences," the man said, 
 languid, smooth and with an easy suggestion of pleas- 
 ure in his address. "Mr. Waring of Missingham, my 
 friendly doctor chap. Well, well; this is unexpected. 
 Won't you take a seat?" 
 
 As he spoke, Gaythorne made a sign to the servant, 
 who instantly withdrew, and Stanley, surprised beyond 
 measure, but by a superb effort of control hiding any 
 extreme manifestation of wonder at the sudden sharp 
 turn of events, found himself confronting the man he 
 had reason to believe was the Red Colonel.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE sight of Henry Gaythorne turning to greet 
 Waring in the house, 32 Beddoes Street, was 
 certainly a blow to the latter. Gaythorne was 
 smiling with the easy cosmopolitan nonchalance of a 
 man accustomed to mix among his fellows. Waring 
 believed, as he met the man's watchful eyes, that he 
 was more than pleased with the surprise he had en- 
 gineered, though his manner was studiously correct. 
 The first minute of their meeting, under circumstances 
 so unexpected from Waring's point of view, put 
 a strain on all the young doctor's nervous force. 
 His great effort was to abstain from showing un- 
 due interest in what he had to recognize as a casual 
 meeting. 
 
 Gaythorne's first words were in the nature of a 
 challenge. 
 
 "You are surprised to see me?" he said, smiling so 
 that his white teeth showed and the curl of the underlip 
 was accentuated. 
 
 "Yes," Waring confessed, and as he spoke he was 
 pleased to find his own voice even and assured. "From 
 Missingham and the Black Lion to the West End and 
 Beddoes Street is a far cry. I must admit this seems 
 to be an unusual coincidence." 
 
 "Strange things happen in this world, Waring," 
 Gaythorne said, still smiling, but there was an ugly, 
 significant quality in his words. 
 
 219
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Yes," admitted Waring, coolly. "The world has 
 its mysteries." 
 
 Gaythorne's flickering, birdlike eyes were watching 
 Waring closely, and Stanley felt his reply had been 
 weighed by one who examined the most casual phrase 
 to see if menace lurked behind it. 
 
 "After all," said Gaythorne, smoothly, "the matter 
 is not so strange as one might suppose at first sight. 
 I have been here for three years. I took over the 
 house from the man you came to see a Mr. Delane, 
 was it not? In fact, Delane acted for me, as I was 
 out of town." 
 
 "Yes," answered Stanley. "I received my first inti- 
 mation that the place had been sublet a minute ago, 
 from your man. I scarcely expected to find the ten- 
 ant to be someone I knew." 
 
 "And you are my landlord eh?" asked Gaythorne, 
 shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 "No," corrected Waring. "I am acting for your 
 landlord, Miss Copeland. I discovered this was her 
 property from some old deeds." 
 
 The smile on Gaythorne's face was not exactly 
 pleasant. His manner was careless, but there was no 
 concealing the eagerness of his following question. 
 
 "Copeland!" he said. "Ah! I remember. He was 
 the man who was murdered the man we talked about 
 the night you attended to me at the Black Lion. Did 
 he leave a will?" 
 
 "No," answered Waring, casually. "There were cer- 
 tain properties in his daughter's name. We heard 
 of them from a Mr. James, a solicitor of Temple 
 Court." 
 
 220
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Ah !" Gaythorne ejaculated. He had followed War- 
 ing's answer acutely. The younger man was not cer- 
 tain whether his exclamation indicated doubt or relief. 
 But Waring had no difficulty in following his train of 
 thought. 
 
 "James!" Gaythorne said, slowly. "Let me see 
 James solicitor, was he not? The name seems famil- 
 iar. James, Temple Court, solicitor. I seem to re- 
 member the name and the address." 
 
 He paused and looked questioningly at Waring. 
 
 Stanley refrained from speaking. He had fenced 
 with Gaythorne before. Now, deliberately, he refused 
 to help the man by giving him a lead. There was an 
 irritable note in Gaythorne's smooth voice when he 
 spoke again and the snarling underlip seemed to curl 
 threateningly. 
 
 "James, Temple Court, solicitor," Gaythorne 
 snapped the fingers of his finely modeled hand the 
 hand so like a claw. "Ah, yes! I have it. He was 
 murdered, too. I read the account in the paper yes- 
 terday. That's it I thought my memory had pigeon- 
 holed some facts about Mr. James, solicitor." 
 
 "Yes," Stanley said, measuring his words. "Mr. 
 James was shot dead in his own office." 
 
 "That is odd," Gaythorne rejoined, coolly. "There 
 seems to be a sinister influence playing round this 
 man Copeland and his friends. Is there any indication 
 likely to identify the assailants?" 
 
 "I do not know," Waring replied. "I have scarcely 
 had the time to investigate the details." 
 
 Gaythorne looked up sharply. 
 
 "Investigate," he said. "Why use the word investi- 
 221
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 gate? Are you contemplating the possibility of turn- 
 ing detective?" 
 
 The question was put smilingly, but the challenge 
 was obvious. There was a steely quality in Gaythorne's 
 voice. The flickering eyes ceased to waver. They 
 looked on Stanley with a fierce interest with a reso- 
 lute suggestion of challenge. Driven by a reckless im- 
 pulse, Waring decided to meet it. 
 
 "I do not know," he said coolly, meeting the direct 
 glance. "Circumstances are making me curious. I am 
 inclined to recall a theory you held out the night you 
 stayed at the Black Lion the interesting theory stated 
 by your friend, Harrison. You remember, he sug- 
 gested the murder of Copeland was similar in its de- 
 tails to a series of crimes committed many years ago 
 by a gang you described as the Red Four." 
 
 "Ah !" said Gaythorne, the rigid air of attention giv- 
 ing place to a polite smile. "Is there some similarity 
 about the murder of Copeland and the end of this 
 man er er James ?" 
 
 "Yes there is the appearance of a red cross," War- 
 ing answered. 
 
 The other still smiled. 
 
 "And there is a further interesting development," 
 Waring added, speaking slowly and measuring his man 
 with a searching glance. "Another body was found in 
 Wayside Lodge yesterday a man who had evidently 
 met his death overnight. He had been strangled by 
 the same curious thug-like method used to kill Paul 
 Copeland." 
 
 "You don't say so?" Gaythorne answered, his voice 
 even, suave, and betraying polite interest. "Why, that
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 would make Harrison's theory interesting even to 
 you," he added, lazily. 
 
 Waring assented by inclining his head. 
 
 "Who was the third murdered man?" Gaythorne 
 asked. His smooth voice had hardened again. The 
 query rang with an ill-concealed menace. 
 
 "He has not been identified," Waring said. 
 
 "Can no one recognize him? Surely " Gay- 
 thorne stopped. His manner betrayed a subtle, in- 
 direct quality of relief. 
 
 "That is all I have heard," Waring said, speaking 
 as if he were losing interest in the subject. 
 
 Gaythorne suddenly walked the length of the cham- 
 ber. There was something stealthy in his movements, 
 as his feet sidled along the thick-carpeted floor. War- 
 ing thought of a tiger confined in a narrow space. Gay- 
 thorne seemed to be thinking rapidly, turning over 
 some weighty problem in his mind, and his big, strong 
 body appeared to prowl more and more in the manner 
 of the tiger as he walked irritably up and down the 
 room. One thought of him as preparing to spring. 
 
 "What errand brought you here, Dr. Waring?" he 
 asked, at last. 
 
 "I thought I ought to see Miss Copeland's property. 
 I am acting for her," Waring replied. 
 
 "You were interested in this man Copeland eh?" 
 
 "No in Miss Copeland," Waring corrected. 
 
 Gaythorne walked the length of the room once 
 more. 
 
 "I don't want to disturb you," he said, at length. 
 "But, as Harrison says, this business is sinister. 
 James, the solicitor, and this unknown man! Has it 
 
 223
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 occurred to you that people connected with this Paul 
 Copeland seem to be running grave danger?" 
 
 His eyes narrowed as he asked this seemingly casual 
 question. 
 
 "Yes," Waring replied, simply. 
 
 "Don't you think the same danger applies to you?" 
 
 The question was as pointed as Gaythorne dared to 
 make it. 
 
 "Yes," answered Waring. 
 
 "Does it not make you uneasy," Gaythorne asked. 
 
 "No," Waring replied. 
 
 "Copeland's end seems to have cost two lives al- 
 ready," Gaythorne added, thoughtfully. 
 
 The words sounded to Waring like a threat. 
 
 "You mean James and the unknown man?" he said. 
 
 "Yes two lives, as I read the situation." 
 
 "The murders may be only remarkable coincidences," 
 Waring answered, reflectively. 
 
 Gaythorne walked the length of the room twice. The 
 curl on the cruel underlip had grown more pronounced. 
 It made Waring think of a dangerous animal, mad with 
 blood lust. 
 
 "Why don't you tell the police?" asked Gaythorne, 
 suddenly, almost fiercely. 
 
 "I know so little," Waring answered. "We are in 
 the realms of pure conjecture. And besides " 
 
 Waring looked Gaythorne in the eyes. 
 
 "Besides " prompted the latter. 
 
 "I prefer to wait," Waring answered, his voice ring- 
 ing with a stern challenge. 
 
 Gaythorne stopped in his perambulation of the room. 
 He brought himself up in front of Waring. The easy, 
 
 224
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 social manner he had adopted seemed to have fallen 
 from him, as if it were a mask of pretence, dropped, 
 discarded as useless. 
 
 "You know more than you confess," he hissed, sud- 
 denly, and once again Waring thought of a sinister 
 tiger preparing to spring. 
 
 "I fail to understand," Waring answered, easily. 
 
 "I'll put the cards on the table," Gaythorne said, 
 speaking rapidly, a harsh note in his voice. "You and 
 I are fencing meaninglessly. You think you know 
 me. I think I know you. Copeland gave you a lead. 
 You are the only man left who could know the secret 
 this Red Colonel may want revealed. And, if you 
 know, you are aware of your danger and you realize 
 what I mean." 
 
 Waring's pulses drummed as he caught the drift of 
 the other's purpose. Gaythorne was throwing off his 
 disguise. The Red Colonel was declaring war. De- 
 spite the revelation and the admissions suddenly made, 
 Waring maintained a stolid silence. 
 
 "You cannot connect me up with the man you think 
 I am," Gaythorne said. "You guess in the dark, but 
 you dare not unmask. You have a line on me and you 
 cannot draw it. You know me as the Red Colonel, 
 but you cannot prove your knowledge. Gaythorne, a 
 reputed member of society, known by everyone who is 
 worth while, and the Red Colonel, whose past is buried 
 twenty years deep, cannot be brought together and 
 you know it. Where do you stand?" 
 
 "Here," said Waring, accepting the direct challenge. 
 "I admit nothing, but since you place some of your 
 cards on the table, I'll throw down another. I know 
 
 225
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 the second man who was murdered at Wayside 
 Lodge." 
 
 "You lie," Gaythorne shouted, savagely, his white 
 teeth gleaming, as the snarl deepened on his coarse 
 lips. "Name him as you hope for safety, name him, I 
 say." 
 
 "Your chauffeur Cunning," Waring answered, his 
 eyes fixed on Gaythorne's glittering pupils, now dilated 
 with surprise. 
 
 With a bound, Gaythorne leaped toward the mantel- 
 piece and stood with his slender fingers covering an 
 electric bell push. 
 
 "Now we know where we stand," he shouted, 
 hoarsely. "It's war. By God, sir; you stand face to 
 face with death this very moment." 
 
 Waring's face did not change. His voice was tran- 
 quil. 
 
 "I am prepared to fight for my life here," he said, 
 evenly. 
 
 "I touch this bell and you are as good as dead," 
 Gaythorne said, angrily. "I could snuff out your 
 candle in a second. No one would ever know and that 
 would be the end of you." 
 
 "Wrong," said Waring boldly, his eyes eagerly tak- 
 ing in every detail of the room. "I know your powers. 
 I even respect them. But I am sure I am safe here." 
 
 The Red Colonel's eyes flickered dangerously. 
 
 "A word from me and you will not leave this house 
 alive," he growled, all the savage in the man unleashed 
 and uppermost. 
 
 "Speak it," Waring said, coolly, a smile on his 
 youthful face. By some reversion to type, he found 
 
 226
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 himself enjoying the grim situation. The joy of the 
 hunter pitting nerve against animal cunning in a tight 
 corner after the trail, the fight, tautened his strong 
 nerves. 
 
 Gaythorne hesitated, his eyes fixed menacingly on 
 Waring. 
 
 "Why do you dare me?" he said, hoarsely, after 
 some seconds of silence. 
 
 Waring played the one card he trusted and 
 won. 
 
 "The reputation of Henry Gaythorne has been care- 
 fully built, I imagine," he found himself saying easily. 
 "Three people know I came here." The fact was not 
 true, but he made the statement prompted by his own 
 faith in his ability to read the situation. "If I am 
 missed, they will inquire here, and if they do Gay- 
 thorne, man of fashion and of good repute, will risk 
 his one chance of security his social position. He 
 will become again the Red Colonel, or at least the cen- 
 ter of ugly inquiries." 
 
 He did not take the trouble to look on the Red 
 Colonel. Something about the shape of the mantel- 
 piece had caught his eyes. Absently, his brain was 
 working over the unusual quality of the design aim- 
 lessly building on a vague idea. And, even as he fol- 
 lowed the hazy stream of speculation, Waring knew he 
 had won. Gaythorne did not press the bell. 
 
 "Yes," he heard the man saying, tensely. "You are 
 clever. In some respects, you are an interesting prob- 
 lem." 
 
 Gaythorne showed his teeth as he spoke. 
 
 "I shall enjoy fighting you," he went on, as if he 
 227
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 had answered a question. "You have seen the house. 
 Is that all you came for? Have you found what you 
 wanted here?" 
 
 "I have," Waring said, with a slow smile. 
 
 "Then go," Gaythorne answered, a threat in every 
 word he spoke. "Go, and depart with the certain 
 knowledge that you have looked at death. And, since 
 you are so confident, think as you go that every hour, 
 waking or asleep, death looks at you. You have only 
 seen one side of the Red Colonel, and you can prove 
 nothing. You will live long enough to realize how 
 true is the proverb that fools walk where angels fear 
 to tread." 
 
 He pressed the button. 
 
 The pale-faced butler, with the eyes of a ferret, re- 
 sponded instantly. He might have been lingering out- 
 side the door. 
 
 "Show Dr. Waring out," Gaythorne said, easily. 
 "And note this, Delane, in no circumstances is he to be 
 admitted to this house again." 
 
 Stanley Waring smiled on Gaythorne and, with a 
 last look at one object in the room, turned on his heel 
 and followed Delane to the door. 
 
 The butler eyed Waring carefully as he opened the 
 door and smiled. It costs nothing to smile, and War- 
 ing smiled back with interest and offered the man a 
 sovereign. 
 
 "If I were you," Delane said, as he pocketed the coin 
 furtively, "I'd die first." 
 
 The words sounded grotesque to Waring, but they 
 were spoken with grim significance. 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" Waring asked. 
 228
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Just what I say," Delane answered. "Think it 
 over. I am giving you a useful tip." 
 
 Waring walked away, thinking rapidly. Nor was 
 the servant's hint all he had to preoccupy his attention, 
 for he had also to ponder over a solution to the mys- 
 tery of the line Fl 32 Bed R. M., a task beset with 
 difficulties, not now entirely hopeless.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 NOW began Wai-ing's real task to connect the 
 Red Colonel with any surviving member of the 
 Red Four, to discover a link between him and 
 the three violent deaths and to trace any movement 
 associating the social butterfly, Gaythorne, with crime 
 or criminals in any direction. 
 
 All the afternoon Waring had a curious sense of 
 being followed. He went his way about the desultory 
 immediate tasks he had set himself without betraying 
 any knowledge that he was under observation. 
 
 He called at his clubs and made inquiries about Gay- 
 thorne, and all produced the same results. Gossip and 
 reference works revealed only facts of good repute. 
 He learned of Gaythorne's family connections all ir- 
 reproachable. His life in New York and London was, 
 on the surface, as clear as an open book. Gaythorne's 
 pursuits were typical of those favored in our day by 
 the man of wealth. He was apparently received in 
 the most exclusive society of both cities, and his 
 occupations were largely what one might expect from 
 a wealthy man of fashion. 
 
 Annually Gaythorne shot, hunted, and, in a small 
 way, raced ; his connections everywhere being reputable 
 members of the wealthier sporting set. Gaythorne's 
 coach, running daily in the season, was a feature of 
 the Brighton Road, and the owner often acted as whip. 
 Gaythorne himself appeared in the approved fashion- 
 
 230
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 able resorts, and was duly photographed about his 
 pleasures with other celebrities. Generally all the evi- 
 dence Waring could collect showed Gaythorne to be a 
 man of fashion, dabbling in sport, politics, and even 
 philanthropy, and concerned only with the correct 
 thing and his place in the social swim. 
 
 Nothing was to be gained by pursuing Gaythorne's 
 career on the surface. The more Waring investigated, 
 the more invulnerable the wealthy bachelor seemed to 
 become. He had worked hard, apparently, to secure 
 social repute. The general opinion, so far as Waring 
 could get into touch with it, agreed that Gaythorne 
 was "a good fellow wealthy, and, though an Amer- 
 ican, good form." 
 
 When Waring joined his train at the Great Central 
 Station he noted, with a quiet grin, the ostentatiously 
 well-dressed man, Italian in color and Jewish in form, 
 the man who had followed him the day he called on 
 Vesta Copeland's solicitor. 
 
 Betraying no consciousness of the presence of this 
 suggestive figure, Waring boarded his train, intending 
 to spend the evening quietly at Missingham. As he 
 traveled he made up his mind on one obvious factor in 
 the situation. He had received the direct challenge and 
 he must face it. If he were to dog the Red Colonel to 
 the point where Waring could present proofs of his 
 guilt, his work lay entirely in London. As he thought 
 over the necessity of making his residence in London, 
 the advice of Delane suddenly assumed a new signifi- 
 cance. The man, in suggesting Waring should die, 
 had given a hint worth following. Waring decided not 
 only to move his quarters to London, but, in doing so, 
 
 231
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 to obliterate his own identity. He would take up the 
 challenge, but not as Stanley Waring. He would dis- 
 appear, leaving no trace of his identity behind him. 
 As Waring left the station he saw, near the rear of 
 the train, the man who had obviously followed him 
 through London to the Marylebone station. 
 
 The decision he had reached was communicated by 
 Waring to Vesta Copeland in the evening, and, though 
 she betrayed much concern, she saw the wisdom of his 
 course of action. That was the last evening Waring 
 spent at his home for some weeks, and long after the 
 family retired he remained up, weighing the exact posi- 
 tion as he saw it. 
 
 First, his duty was to identify Gaythorne with the 
 Red Colonel by actual evidence. The only direct evi- 
 dence he had was Vesta Copeland's recognition of Gay- 
 thorne's voice as being similar to the voice of a man 
 of much different appearance who had been in the lane 
 outside Wayside Lodge on the night of the first mur- 
 der. That was slender enough. There was his own 
 knowledge of the murder of Cunning to put against 
 the fact that Gaythorne had cleverly contrived an alibi 
 by his published appearance at the fancy dress ball. 
 Waring did not doubt the same foresight had led Gay- 
 thorne to take similar precautions with the view of 
 covering his movements on the night of Paul Copeland's 
 murder. Beyond these two facts, Waring had no other 
 evidence. The rest was surmise, unless he counted the 
 matter of the wounded arm as being valuable. Meet- 
 ing this slender clew was the false suggestion of the 
 banknote, with the imprint of a three-fingered hand 
 upon it clearly pointing to Cunning as the murderer. 
 
 232
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Against all Waring knew was the fact that Gaythorne 
 was a man of position, courted, admired, socially pleas- 
 ing and important, while the personality of the Red 
 Colonel lay buried in twenty-year-old annals of crime. 
 
 And again Waring had another thought the safety 
 of his parents, Dr. and Mrs. Waring, and Vesta Cope- 
 land, living in a house supposed by the two surviving 
 members of the Red Four to contain the solution of 
 Paul Copeland's secret for which they had risked much. 
 Thinking the matter over, he did not doubt that some- 
 one was capable of breaking into the schoolhouse on 
 behalf of the two desperate men who had acted so 
 quickly and ruthlessly since their discovery of the first 
 victim. As he thought, Waring remembered the ap- 
 pearance of the man he had seen at Marylebone on the 
 platform of Missingham station. Suddenly he realized 
 that now perhaps one of the Red Four was in Mis- 
 singham, and the attempt to search the school-house 
 might be planned for that night. 
 
 Waring was guessing shrewdly, but he did not guess 
 quite what was to happen that night a happening so 
 grotesque and yet so bold in its cynical menace that 
 Waring, when he came to consider the incident, won- 
 dered whether he had ceased to live in an ordinary 
 world. It seemed, looking back on this incident, as if 
 he had been transplanted into the strange, rapidly 
 moving life of the Arabian Nights. 
 
 The hour was about eleven. The school-house was 
 quite silent. Waring was the only one of the house- 
 hold who had not retired. 
 
 He had piled the logs onto the dining-room fire. 
 Deep in an easy chair, blowing clouds of twisting, curv- 
 
 233
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ing smoke from a favorite briar toward the ceiling, 
 Waring pondered over the tangled skein of crime left 
 in his hands by Paul Copeland. 
 
 Smoking in the quiet hours of the night, there comes 
 often to men capable of great concentration an hour 
 when the brain works with unusual lucidity. The con- 
 dition might be called, for want of a better phrase, an 
 access of vision. 
 
 In such an hour Waring was reducing many of the 
 tangled skeins to order and to some sort of logical pro- 
 gression. 
 
 He held the clew the Red Colonel wanted, and he 
 realized Gaythorne was in possession of the house 
 which alone could reveal the meaning of the design 
 and the cryptic line beneath it. He guessed Gay- 
 thorne had tracked Copeland to London, and the lat- 
 ter had been warned in sufficient time to fly. The Red 
 Colonel had found the nest, but the bird had flown. 
 He had at once taken possession of the house in the 
 hope that Copeland must return. And here, with singu- 
 lar lucidity, Waring's brain had a vision of the real 
 irony of the situation. He knew where Paul Copeland's 
 treasure was, but could not reach it through Gay- 
 thorne's presence in the house in Beddoes Street. The 
 Red Colonel was taking risks, adding crime to crime, 
 deepening the red stain upon his ruthless record, for 
 the key to a fortune probably lying hidden in the very 
 house he occupied. 
 
 Waring had puzzled this out from what he had seen 
 and from much he had merely guessed. He rose, kicked 
 the fire, and dashed out the ashes of his pipe by knock- 
 ing the bowl against the mantelpiece. As he filled the 
 
 234
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 pipe again there was a grim smile on his lean features. 
 
 He had applied a match to the tobacco and was 
 drawing in the flame, when his enjoyment of the new 
 charge was suddenly arrested. 
 
 Outside a voice was singing, not loudly, but with a 
 carrying power out of all proportion to the volume. 
 
 The voice was a male one, and each note revealed 
 unusual quality, training, and mastery. Tenor a 
 soft, round, flexible tenor, each note so smooth one 
 thought of pearls, and yet so liquid as to set the mind 
 seeing spring water plashing into a crystal globe. 
 
 Stanley Waring's senses were acute. The match in 
 his hand went out. He laid the briar back on the 
 mantelpiece. The smile faded from his lips. 
 
 "The Warbler," he said, grimly, speaking the words 
 aloud. 
 
 Even as he realized the fact, the last line of a chorus 
 was reached, and, as the notes of it died away, Waring, 
 with a catch of his breath, realized the same notes 
 were being sung outside his home as had been whistled 
 in the form of a signal before the murder of Paul Cope- 
 land, and were used as a summons by the Red Colonel 
 himself the night Cunning died in the study at Way- 
 side Lodge. 
 
 There was no sound outside after the singing had 
 finished. 
 
 Waring stood, taut and eager, like a greyhound on 
 the leash, with the game coming from cover to the 
 open field. 
 
 He looked round the room, with its shuttered, cur- 
 tained windows, as if he expected to see a figure spring- 
 ing through them. Mentally he reviewed the apart- 
 
 235
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ments in the school-house, wondering where they were 
 vulnerable. Then he realized the voice outside was a 
 summons a bold, challenging summons to himself, dar- 
 ing Waring to deny his knowledge of the sinister bar 
 of music or its significance. 
 
 Waring's first impulse was to open the door and 
 voluntarily to meet the danger in the night. He 
 moved as if to carry out his desire, and then suddenly 
 stopped his eyes fixed on the dining room door. A 
 footstep was sounding on the stairs. Waring stiffened 
 to meet the newcomer and drew a revolver from his 
 hip pocket. His face was slightly pale, but his eyes 
 were bright with eagerness, and when he gripped the 
 revolver not a nerve of his hand shook. Thus Waring 
 stood, as the footsteps sounded on the stairs and the 
 dining room door slowly opened. 
 
 "Vesta," Waring cried, almost disappointed. 
 
 Vesta Copeland stood before him, attired hastily in 
 a dressing gown. The terror in the girl's eyes was the 
 horror one sees in the faces of those newly wakened 
 from slumbering security to sudden danger. Her long 
 hair was loose, flowing about her shoulders and veiling 
 the round neck standing out from the folds of her 
 dressing gown. Her white feet had been thrust hastily 
 into bedroom slippers. 
 
 "You shall not go," she said, her voice vibrating. 
 "I heard oh! yes, I heard. They want you my 
 sweetheart. You must not go." 
 
 He gripped the girl's hand and steadied Vesta by 
 placing an arm about her shoulder. 
 
 "Silence," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "This is the 
 moment when you must be brave. Without question 
 
 236
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 you must obey my judgment now! The house must 
 sooner or later open to one of the Red Four. Better, 
 for reasons clear to me, that the interview should take 
 place to-night." 
 
 "But, Stanley, think of me, of yourself, of your life 
 which is mine." 
 
 "I have thought," he replied, quickly. "This, the 
 bolder way, is the safe one. Go out of the room, to 
 your own or the next. Leave the hall clear." 
 
 "You are going to admit this monster?" she asked, 
 her lip trembling. 
 
 "Yes ; if you love me, go. Believe me, I know what 
 I am doing. And try not to disturb anyone. I prefer 
 my parents should not know of this." 
 
 She turned obediently to the door, looking back 
 hungrily upon her lover, all the protective maternal 
 interest in her slumbering womanhood aroused. 
 
 As Vesta disappeared, outside the round, beautiful 
 voice was singing again, and, oddly, the liquid notes 
 made Waring's mind dance with thoughts of Italian 
 balconies, of some languorous maiden looking down 
 upon a dark, upturned passionate face, of romance in 
 scented gardens and love turning to madness stirred 
 by the longing of a voice singing in the moonlight. 
 
 The silvery voice went on softly until the last notes 
 making the bar of music used twice AS a prelude to 
 death by the Red Colonel ended the haunting serenade. 
 And when outside there was only silence, Stanley War- 
 ing went with firm step across the hall and threw open 
 the door.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 OUTSIDE, in the darkness, Stanley Waring 
 could just see the shadowed bulk of the singer. 
 When the light of the hall struck a path which 
 illuminated the paved footway to the gates, the wait- 
 ing figure came toward the door. As the man drew 
 closer his shape was revealed, and Waring recognized 
 him as the spy who had twice followed him to Maryle- 
 bone station. 
 
 The man in the garden advanced into the area of 
 light and, as he did so, bowed with a certain show of 
 grace. 
 
 "Mr. Stanley Waring, I presume," he said. 
 
 "Yes," Waring answered, in staccato tones, frigid 
 with lack of encouragement. 
 
 "I should like to speak with you," said the solitary 
 figure of the night. "Would it be trespassing too 
 much if I suggest you ask me inside?" 
 
 "No," answered Waring. "The hour is unusual 
 but come in. I will hear what you have to say." 
 
 Stanley Waring stood back, and the singer stepped 
 into the hall. 
 
 Waring closed the door and the two men confronted 
 each other. Waring had his hands in his jacket pock- 
 ets and his right rested on the revolver he now always 
 carried, and the barrel of it covered the figure of the 
 newcomer. 
 
 238
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "After you," the visitor said, with a courteous 
 salute. 
 
 "No," answered Stanley Waring, grimly. "You 
 go first to the door on the left where you see the 
 light." 
 
 "You are cautious, sir," said the man, politely. 
 
 "Yes," answered Waring. "The circumstances are 
 unusual." 
 
 The other shrugged his shoulders, and without fur- 
 ther comment walked toward the lighted room. 
 
 When Stanley entered in the man's wake he had time 
 to examine his unexpected visitor. The man was tall 
 and heavily built. A thick coat reached to his feet and 
 the lower part of the face was buried in a rich astra- 
 chan collar. A silk hat was carried in the right hand, 
 and as the man entered the room he laid it down on 
 the table. 
 
 As Waring confronted the visitor he realized the 
 familiar features. The man's face was heavy in the 
 Italian manner, and swarthy, the chin being of an un- 
 healthy hue. The hair was short and clung about the 
 forehead in crisp oily curls. The nose was distinctly 
 Jewish in its character, hooked, and distinctly pred- 
 atory. A heavy black moustache partially hid a mouth 
 thick of lip and very sensual. The whole face, includ- 
 ing the soft brown eyes, was smiling ingratiatingly. 
 The smile was of the type that begins at the teeth 
 and works outwardly. At a glance, Waring knew the 
 man's superficial smile was more to be feared than 
 the stormy signs of anger that gather on many faces. 
 There was something insincere about the jovial ex- 
 pression. One felt the man could smile at will and 
 
 239
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 mask the worst purposes under a leer meant to dis- 
 arm. 
 
 ' v v en, said Waring, eyeing his man. "I am pre- 
 pared to hear you go on." 
 
 The smile grew more pronounced. 
 
 "You know me?" said the stranger. 
 
 "No," answered Waring. 
 
 "But you know why I have come?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 The dark, expansive smile grew more pronounced. 
 
 "And yet," the stranger said, thoughtfully, "you 
 opened to the signal." 
 
 Waring smiled grimly. 
 
 "I do not follow you," he said, slowly. "It is not 
 usual for tenor voices, exquisite tenor voices, to sing 
 in my garden at night. I opened out of sheer curi- 
 osity." 
 
 The Italian-looking man bowed. 
 
 "You compliment my voice. Ah ! yes," he said. "It 
 is gracious of you. Years ago I dreamed of singing 
 in the opera the career. Ah ! I still have my dreams ; 
 but for me never. They do not come true. And this 
 life is all so different so different from the dream. 
 I think about it and think again. The music 
 it was my god but all too late. Never it can 
 never be." 
 
 As he spoke, a little extravagantly, shaking his head 
 and shrugging his shoulders, Waring watched him 
 closely, and observed the smiling eyes eagerly looked 
 over the apartment with swift, cunning and quick, ap- 
 praising glance. 
 
 Waring's lip curled slightly when he spoke again. 
 
 240
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "You did not come to tell me of the dreams that do 
 not come true," he said, with a frigid air of calm. 
 
 The visitor shrugged his shoulders extravagantly 
 and his hands sank deep in his coat pockets. 
 
 "Clever Englishman," he said. "Of course, I speak 
 not only of my dreams, but sometimes I remember. It 
 is a great sadness. The voice is a wonderful organ. 
 I am known in many lands as the Warbler." 
 
 Waring's face did not change nor did he admit by a 
 sign that the name was familiar to him. 
 
 "Take a seat," he said, curtly. 
 
 The other bowed and slipped into an easy chair. 
 
 Waring sat down in a chair opposite to him, took the 
 revolver out of his pocket, and laid it quietly on a 
 table standing between them, and nearer to Stanley. 
 
 "Cut out the comic opera touch," he said, icily. "I, 
 want to know why you have come." 
 
 The smile on the swarthy face still broadened. 
 
 "The English yes, magnificent, but they have not 
 the imagination. No it is not here," he added, tap- 
 ping his forehead. 
 
 Waring did not speak. 
 
 "You are afraid," the Italian said, comfortably. 
 "You are afraid of the Warbler eh?" 
 
 Waring eyed his man serenely. 
 
 "I do not know what you mean by the Warbler," 
 he said, speaking distinctly. "But if you think I fear 
 any comedian who cares to sing in my garden, you are 
 mistaken. Cut out the Italian frills and let us get to 
 the point." 
 
 The Warbler rolled his eyes. He still smiled, but the 
 shrug of his shoulders expressed irritation. 
 
 241
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "I see you like the direct touch," he said, amiably. 
 "You want none of the ah, what you English call it 
 beating about the bushes. So! This is my message. 
 I come from the Red Colonel." 
 
 "Yes," Stanley said. "I guessed that." 
 
 "Why do you guess the Red Colonel eh ?" asked the 
 stranger. "You have the clew yes?" 
 
 "No," Waring answered. "I only know what I have 
 been told." 
 
 "Who told you ?" Suddenly the Italian face stopped 
 smiling. 
 
 "The Red Colonel this afternoon," Waring replied. 
 
 Doubt seemed to take the place of the expansive 
 smile. The Warbler hesitated for a moment. 
 
 "I will not have that," he said, at last. "You must 
 know." 
 
 Waring drummed on the table with his fingers and 
 smiled easily. 
 
 "As you please," he said, with marked insolence. 
 "You believe me or not as you please. But, if that 
 is all, I do not quite see why I should sit up half the 
 night with you." 
 
 Waring was offensive deliberately. He knew that a 
 barbed tongue would find an angry spot beyond the 
 oily, smiling features of his guest. 
 
 "So!" said the Warbler, rising hotly. "I will tell 
 you and tell you quickly. I will teach you about the 
 civil tongue. I will make you 
 
 Waring picked up the revolver and covered the 
 man. 
 
 "Sit down," he said, curtly. "I do not fear you; 
 I stand no threats from you. What is your message? 
 
 242
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Why have you come here? I admitted you because I 
 want to know." 
 
 The other man ran his tongue round his full lips, 
 moistening them. 
 
 "So you shall know," he said. "The Red Colonel 
 he is dangerous. Already a man die ; one man two 
 men." 
 
 "Three, to be precise," Waring said, easily. 
 
 The Warbler started. 
 
 "You did not know of the third !" he almost shouted. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 "The Red Colonel admitted it." 
 
 The Warbler bit his lips until the blood almost 
 strained through the taut flesh. 
 
 "No matter," he said, with a wave of a pulpy, soft 
 hand. "Here is my message. One man he die. Paul 
 Copeland you know him. He had a secret where? 
 It has not come to the light." 
 
 "No," answered Waring, easily. 
 
 "No," agreed the Warbler, sullenly. "The Red 
 Colonel, he thinks you know. He says this foolish 
 Englishman, he has the paper. He keeps it dark. He 
 looks upon you as a dangerous man as a very danger- 
 ous man." 
 
 "And he sends you to scare me," Waring said, with 
 a calculated curl of the lip. 
 
 "He sends me not to scare but to bargain," the 
 Warbler said. "He offers you 1,000 for your secret. 
 Give it to me now and I pay in good notes. And then 
 you will be free of us. We don't want you." 
 
 The other strained forward eagerly as he uttered his 
 243
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 message and waited with ill-concealed anxiety for War- 
 ing to speak. 
 
 "And if I say I know nothing?" Waring asked, with 
 a smile. 
 
 The other flicked his fingers as if he were snuffing a 
 candle. 
 
 "You die," he said, and he smiled opulently. 
 "Sooner or later you die. Already one, two perhaps 
 three, as you say. Maybe and easily a fourth. You, 
 sir. A thousand pounds is a lot of money to a young 
 man. It is better far better to be reasonable." 
 
 Waring rose slowly. 
 
 "Is that all?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes all I have to state," the Italian returned, still 
 smiling. 
 
 "Then, as the hour is late permit me to say good 
 night," Waring answered, pointing to the door. 
 
 The Warbler was obviously nonplussed. 
 
 "The secret is here?" he said, ingratiatingly, taking 
 in the house with one sweep of his arm. 
 
 "No," Waring said, positively. "If I had the secret, 
 I would not burden the house of my friends with it and 
 invite the attentions of such men as you." 
 
 As he spoke, the Warbler, eyeing Waring intently, 
 suddenly looked at the door. His face was contorted 
 with a sudden expression of fear so grotesque that 
 Waring seemed dumfounded. Almost mechanically, 
 Waring followed the horror-stricken gaze and turned 
 his head. A second later he realized his mistake. The 
 Warbler had sprung upon him, caught him by the 
 throat, and had thrown him bodily across the heavy 
 dining room table. 
 
 244
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Aha !" he chuckled softly. "My face it is my for- 
 tune. They must look away when they see the ex- 
 pression. It is a trick, a very great trick." 
 
 And even as he spoke the soft, almost chubby 
 hands of the Warbler were upon Waring's throat, 
 pressing with a viselike grip belying their fleshy 
 shape. 
 
 "We teach you to defy we teach you to balk the 
 Red Colonel," the man said, smiling into Waring's dis- 
 torted features with the hate of a wild beast reveling 
 in its power for brutality. As he spoke he was 
 strangling the life out of Waring, and the latter could 
 only move convulsively in the horrible grasp and won- 
 der, as a rat caught in a steel trap, whether this was 
 the end, whether he might bite himself free, whether 
 there was hope, whether 
 
 "If you do not take your hands off that man, I'll 
 blow your brains out !" 
 
 The words were spoken in the Warbler's ear by an 
 even feminine voice, and the man felt the cold barrel 
 of a revolver at his temple. 
 
 He looked and saw Vesta Copeland standing by his 
 side, the ugly weapon grasped in a steady white hand. 
 Immediately he released his grip on Waring and turned 
 to deal with her. As he did so, Waring leaped to his 
 feet, slightly dizzy and breathless, and seized his own 
 revolver. 
 
 Between them, Vesta and Waring had the Warbler 
 covered. 
 
 Instantly he became the smiling caller of a minute 
 before. 
 
 "You have the er advantage," he said, easily. 
 245
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "What will you do? Blow out the brain eh? Or 
 call the police?" 
 
 "Neither," Waring said. "Go." 
 
 The Warbler looked from the girl to Waring 5 s stern- 
 set face. 
 
 "Ah ! I understand," he said, easily, and smiling with 
 dog-like ferocity. "I know what I came to find out. It 
 is certain very certain and sure. You have the secret 
 yes. You will not risk the police. You will not sell. 
 So ! You are brave but foolish. You will live to regret 
 this yes, yes, sooner or later, you will regret this 
 very much." 
 
 The Warbler took his silk hat and, smiling into the 
 weapons pointed at him, walked to the door. 
 
 Waring closed the entrance behind his unusual 
 visitor. 
 
 As he looked gratefully into the troubled eyes and 
 white face of Vesta Copeland, a voice was singing softly 
 outside. Full, silvery, liquid, pure, the voice of the 
 Warbler, leaving the garden, rose and fell. It trilled 
 the notes of the operatic air, and before the man had 
 receded out of hearing he had finished the chorus. The 
 last sounds Waring made out were the notes of the 
 Red Colonel's whistled signal, given with the caressing 
 grace of a finished singer. And, even though they were 
 clothed in velvety sound, the last bar of the melody 
 was a deadly threat.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 AT night the corner of the Cafe Egypt is always 
 bravely lighted. It is situated within the heart 
 of the lighted area of Leicester Square. In a 
 district where electricity is lavishly used, the Cafe 
 Egypt, so far as illumination goes, holds its own. 
 
 The Cafe Egypt is one of the many establishments 
 in the west doing no business by day. Until well into 
 the evening the premises have a stale, blase, weary air. 
 From the outside, in the daylight, the curious may 
 learn how garish and coarse are the decorations that 
 show up so bravely under the glare of the many arc 
 lamps. 
 
 At night the Cafe Egypt is always in fine fig and 
 feather, and it becomes more positive in its round the 
 nearer the hands of the clock point to midnight. At 
 its door stand two uniformed attendants who have the 
 manners of ex-policemen. The fact that there are 
 always two is in itself significant. Through the doors 
 pass many people, but, despite their number, they may 
 be separated into two distinct types. One is common- 
 place enough, whether the man be young or old. He 
 is well dressed, a little excited, and is seeing life life, 
 in this case, meaning a beat round the lighted haunts 
 in and about Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square, 
 punctuated by pauses for alcoholic inspiration. 
 
 The second type is composed of people of both sexes 
 and of any age. They have the unconscious direct- 
 
 247
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ness of those who are familiar with every light in the 
 street or stone in the pavement between the Circus and 
 Leicester Square. In the artificial light these men or 
 women, old or young, look brave enough. The women 
 run to fine feathers, bold, challenging glances and 
 patchouli fumes, with a certain hard defiance in their 
 warmest smiles. The men are well groomed and of any 
 age, usually a little faded and hectic, scrupulous about 
 their linen and having a tendency to pose so that a 
 diamond pin, or ring, or a pair of jeweled sleeve links 
 may make the most favorable impression while deflect- 
 ing the crazy light. All this type have one quality in 
 common a persistent, furtive but analytical watch- 
 fulness. They are all habitues of the West End and 
 seem to have business in the night and every night. 
 Their business takes them to places where corks pop 
 in steady chorus, accompanied by the persistent rattle 
 of glass ; where waiters move everlastingly among the 
 crowds about the little tables and where men who have 
 dined and are not habitues of the West End throw 
 coins carelessly on counter, table top, or the ever- 
 extended trays of the waiters, as if money were as 
 common and as easily acquired as grains of red 
 sand. 
 
 You approach the Cafe Egypt by a marble staircase 
 richly paneled on either side. A nude figure in terra 
 cotta holds a spray of electric lights at the top of the 
 stairs. You walk into a bar almost at the head of the 
 staircase the Cafe Egypt is nothing if not hospitable. 
 Three over-painted girls, nervously excited, are stead- 
 ily filling glasses. The proprietor, a stout, over- 
 dressed man, stands in the corner, chewing a heavy 
 
 248
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 cigar and watching neither bar woman nor waiter 
 misses a penny of the income available to his house. 
 The room is a place of fierce lights and garish decora- 
 tions, with alcoves at either side. Easy chairs are 
 placed round little tables; the floors are heavily car- 
 peted; divans run along the walls, and in and about 
 the crowds more nude figures in terra cotta hold up 
 more sprays of electric light. The staircase goes up 
 again into another similar room, and a band, midway 
 between the two floors, plays the garish, hideous music 
 men do make in such houses of the night. 
 
 The reek of spirits, the fumes of cigar smoke, the 
 odor of patchouli; crowds about the little tables and 
 nodding, gossiping heads ; frowsy, restless waiters, 
 coming and going; the laughter of an excited, over- 
 dressed woman, the crash of a breaking glass, the 
 mirthless music of a tired band all these go to com- 
 plete a hurried picture of the interior of the Cafe 
 Egypt. 
 
 At nine o'clock one night a visitor might have seen 
 an habitue arrive. He was a tall, lean man with a 
 military bearing. He was dressed in the approved 
 manner of the West End five years ago well brushed 
 silk hat, neatly fitted frock coat slightly worn, gray 
 trousers carefully pressed. His hair was white and 
 the heavy moustache hiding the mouth was of a silky 
 gray quality. The man made his way to the far side 
 of the room and sat in the corner of an alcove at a 
 table where a boy and a gaily dressed girl were ex- 
 changing glances across their wine glasses. 
 
 The newcomer pulled out an evening paper, folded 
 his gloves, carefully laid aside a shabby cane of malacca 
 
 249
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 with a silver mounting, and lit a cigarette, the vapor 
 from which he drew through an amber tube 
 
 A stout, yellow-faced waiter sidled toward him. 
 
 "Ah, Tom," said the long, lean, white-haired man, 
 looking more like a retired soldier than ever; "how 
 goes the game? Is this little beauty spot whirling 
 round in the same old way?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," the waiter said, with a grin. 
 
 "The usual, Thomas. What a comfort it is to have 
 an English waiter in the West End." 
 
 "Yes, sir," the waiter glided away. 
 
 The white-haired old soldier smiled on the girl sit- 
 ting with the younger man at the same table. 
 
 "Still blooming like the rose, Stella," he suggested 
 with a tired smile. 
 
 The girl nodded brightly. 
 
 "I don't know how you keep it up on the cheap cham- 
 pagne they Sell here," the newcomer said with a sigh. 
 
 She raised her glass and drank to him. The younger 
 man, a stranger, flushed with some annoyance at the 
 interruption of his tete-a-tete. 
 
 "Ah, sonny !" said the older man, noting his glance. 
 "No one minds me, the clubless Major. Go on with 
 the game, dear lady, I'm quite out of it. There are 
 other thrills besides sweet champagne and women's eyes 
 at my age." 
 
 "Why do you come here, then?" the girl asked, her 
 chin upon her hands. 
 
 "Ah! Miss Madcap because I choose." He smiled 
 inscrutably through the cigarette smoke. "There are 
 lights and people here!" he added. "And one sees 
 much that is amusing." 
 
 250
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 As he spoke, the English waiter the only one 
 brought a large glass full of a green fluid, together 
 with a bowl of sugar and a water bottle. 
 
 After receiving his fee, the waiter sidled off, leaving 
 his customer apparently preoccupied with the spirit at 
 his elbow. A metal perforated container placed across 
 the glass held a piece of sugar. On this, drop by drop 
 a slow process the man who called himself Major 
 was dropping water from the glass vessel, which, in 
 addition to the usual mouth, had a narrow perfora- 
 tion at the side to regulate a flow of water into 
 just such drops as the man was using. As the 
 water trickled through the sugar, the green fluid 
 in the glass grew cloudy and whitened, a process 
 apparently pleasing to the man who was preparing 
 the drink. 
 
 So, sipping his absinthe, the Major lapsed into a 
 sleepy, contemplative appreciation of the scene about 
 him. Sitting there, he seemed to be just amused, in a 
 sad-eyed, tolerant manner. People thought of him as 
 one of the army of elderly pensioned people who live 
 alone in cities and in the evening of life have no interest 
 further than an hour at a cafe, a solitary drink and a 
 cigarette, with perhaps a glance at an evening paper. 
 He remained there, smoking and drinking slowly, read- 
 ing a little, indifferent yet mildly interested. Indeed, 
 he had become so familiar a figure in this haunt of 
 mixed impulses as to be recognized by some of its most 
 doubtful habitual patrons. 
 
 Toward half-past eleven, when the stormy squeal of 
 cab whistles indicated the dispersal of the theater 
 crowds outside, the Cafe Egypt grew more crowded 
 
 251
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 and slightly more uproarious. Indeed, there was 
 scarcely a vacant seat. 
 
 Two men who had just come in were standing at 
 the mouth of the staircase, surveying the crowded 
 room. 
 
 The Major's metal spoon tinkled in the glass. The 
 girl before him met his eye with an inquiring glance. 
 From her actions one might have thought she had re- 
 ceived a sign. 
 
 She moved casually on to the divan near the older 
 man and laughingly called upon her young companion 
 to take a vacant seat by her side. 
 
 The movement left two seats at a table vacant, the 
 only two in the room. Toward them came the two 
 new arrivals. One was a heavy man of Italian features, 
 in evening clothes, the fur-lined coat being thrown 
 open. He was wearing a single eyeglass attached to 
 his neck by a ribbon, the black line of the fabric show- 
 ing oddly on the coarse texture of his swarthy face. 
 His friend was even a taller man, more bulky and very 
 strongly built. He appeared to be a rougher breed 
 in his manner and dress, which in some measure sug- 
 gested the sea. All the same, he led the way to the 
 vacant chairs and took the initiative in commanding 
 the attention of the waiter. 
 
 The elderly military man sat back, sipping his sec- 
 ond absinthe absently, smiling upon the girl next to 
 him, and anon idly watching the curling smoke drift- 
 ing from the end of his cigarette. He had scarcely 
 looked at the two men as they advanced, and beyond 
 politely moving his legs to make way for them, be- 
 trayed no interest in their presence. 
 
 252
 
 THE RED COLONEL, 
 
 The two men talked without any concealment, ap- 
 parently secure in their belief that no one could make 
 sense of the cryptic quality of their remarks. 
 
 "And the country blood?" the rougher man of sea- 
 faring manner asked. 
 
 "I have been down three times in the week. He is 
 not there has not been there since he refused to sell. 
 I have lost him. What about yourself?" The speaker 
 was the man who had introduced himself to Waring as 
 the Warbler. 
 
 "I think I have found him," the heavier man an- 
 swered. 
 
 The other raised his tumbler and drank to his com- 
 panion. 
 
 "What's his game, Rufus?" the Italian asked. 
 
 "Watching," the second voice replied. "Waiting 
 and watching." 
 
 "Where does he wait?" asked the Warbler. 
 
 "In Beddoes Street, every day. He has missed the 
 connection so far." 
 
 The two men laughed. Suddenly the Warbler leaned 
 forward across the table, his manner curious and sig- 
 nificant. 
 
 "Will he be permitted to wait long?" 
 
 "No I think a day or two will see him out of the 
 picture." 
 
 "And the grand rally. Have you fixed the date?" 
 
 "Yes it depends on you. Is all ready?" the man 
 called Rufus asked. 
 
 "Quite every man will be in his place and some of 
 the women. We only want the word." The Warbler 
 spoke eagerly, his gaze fixed on his companion. 
 
 253
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Then make it Saturday Saturday at eight 
 o'clock." 
 
 The Warbler nodded. 
 
 "A good day Saturday. Always plenty of money 
 about." 
 
 They went on talking earnestly and eagerly together, 
 as men who have many details to discuss. So wrapt up 
 in what they had to say were the two men, their heads 
 drew closer as they leaned over the table and their 
 voices sank to whispers. The elderly Major sipped his 
 absinthe to the last drop, smoked his cigarette to the 
 end and then dropped it 'into an ash tray. He rose 
 to go, buttoning his prim frock coat. 
 
 "You are off early to-night," the girl at his elbow 
 said, smiling brightly, as he stood up. 
 
 "Yes, my little nightbird," he answered, smiling. 
 "Early to bed and early to rise you know the old 
 proverb." 
 
 She nodded brightly. 
 
 "But if you are stopping up," he added, "you might 
 let me know if anything is going on among the boys. 
 Savvy, little woman?" 
 
 She nodded again, intelligence in her bright, chal- 
 lenging eyes. The Major saluted her by primly rais- 
 ing his hat and, leaning heavily on his malacca cane, 
 walked with a tired, lazy carriage toward the door. 
 
 "Who's that old buck?" asked the Warbler. "I see 
 him often here. Crook, d'ye think? Would he come 
 in?" 
 
 The man of seafaring habit smiled grimly and looked 
 at the girl opposite to him, who was looking through 
 her glass of wine at the boy by her side. 
 
 254
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Can't make him out," he said. "Might be white or 
 black. Sometimes I think he's got a tag. Sometimes I 
 think he's just a plain old fool with an eye for pretty 
 women. No harm in sounding him. I should not be 
 surprised if he would work a job." 
 
 The other nodded grimly. 
 
 "Just the type for our new gag," the Warbler said. 
 "He looks the part if he would come in." 
 
 Opposite, the pretty girl was staring her companion 
 out of countenance with a melting glance. 
 
 Outside, on the curb, the old military man was stand- 
 ing watching taxicabs go by and scarcely seeing them. 
 
 "Beddoes Street," he was saying. "Now, that's a 
 new thoroughfare to me." 
 
 He stopped a cab, and gave the name of the street. 
 
 "Stop at the corner," he suggested. 
 
 A few minutes later a cab stopped at the corner of 
 Beddoes Street and the fare got out, tired, languid. 
 
 "One and two, you register," he said. 
 
 The cabby nodded. 
 
 When the fare had disappeared the driver was look- 
 ing intently at the shilling and sixpence in the palm 
 of his hand and then from the coins to the vanishing 
 figure. 
 
 He took off his peaked cap and scratched his head 
 thoughtfully after a minute of deep reflection. 
 
 "Blimey it's a rum hole, is this London," he said. 
 "Now I'd have sworn a Happy David that ole nut had 
 a white moustache when he got in and was twenty years 
 older than he seemed when he got out." 
 
 He replaced the cap and then scratched his nose 
 with increasing perplexity. 
 
 255
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Yes it's a funny ole plice. But if I'm not balmy 
 that chap when he got in had military fice fittings, 
 bleached sime as all the ole soldier toffs seem to git 
 their whiskers, working foreign." 
 
 The taxicab man pulled on a lever and his vehicle 
 thrust forward. 
 
 Up the street, walking slowly, lazily, was the old 
 military figure who had left the Cafe Egypt. The 
 cabman was right. He was certainly much younger, 
 and the white moustache, his most distinguishing char- 
 acteristic, was missing. He had altered his appearance 
 so that he did not seem to be the same man.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 FROM the night of the visit of the Warbler, 
 Stanley Waring disappeared and his days and 
 nights became crowded with strange new inter- 
 ests. After his interview with the Warbler, Stanley 
 stayed on in Missingham until the noon of the next 
 day. At twelve-five he was on the platform, waiting 
 for the train, a portmanteau carried in his left hand. 
 Upon his right arm hung Vesta Copeland, looking very 
 beautiful in the wintry sunlight, though her face was 
 anxious as the girl alternately listened and talked to 
 Stanley. 
 
 The train was not due for five minutes and the two 
 young people paced tne deserted platform alone. 
 
 Waring was now speaking slowly and urgently. 
 
 "Above all, keep your nerve," he was saying. "All 
 the chances are with me. I'll send you my name and 
 address as soon as I fix a center, and you can always 
 wire me. Yes and each morning I'll ring you up by 
 telephone. That will make things easier. You will 
 know exactly how I am getting on." 
 
 "Yes," Vesta replied, her lips trembling; "whether 
 you are alive or dead. Easy for you to ask me to be 
 brave and to keep my nerve. I can do both. But I 
 should not be a woman if I did not see myself sitting 
 here in quiet Missingham and waiting for I know not 
 what. You will be in danger all the time. I feel as if 
 this might be our last meeting." 
 
 257
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 She broke off. 
 
 The signal bar at the end of the platform fell. The 
 smoke of the up train appeared in the distance. A 
 solitary porter, disturbed over his midday meal, strode 
 onto the platform, masticating his food as he walked. 
 
 "Don't worry," Waring answered, trying to make 
 light of her fears. "And think as little as you can 
 about it. After all, the chances are with me." 
 
 The train steamed into the station and the rest of 
 their farewells were hurried. A few moments after 
 Vesta Copeland was sadly watching the buffers of the 
 receding guard's van, and Stanley Waring was speed- 
 ing to London and the shadows of a great series of 
 crimes, with the key to an appalling mystery to his 
 hand. 
 
 The up train ceased to stop after calling at the next 
 two village stations, and Waring had a full three- 
 quarters of an hour in the empty compartment he had 
 chosen. He used it to some purpose, for when the 
 train drew into Marylebone, few traces of a familiar 
 figure were to be found about the Waring who stepped 
 out of the carriage. He had effected a simple disguise. 
 By calling upon the discarded wardrobe of Dr. War- 
 ing, he had discovered some shabby, clerical attire. A 
 clerical hat pulled well down over his eyes, spectacles, 
 a heavy plaid muffler, a slight alteration of his carriage 
 so that he seemed to stoop at the shoulders, all helped 
 to produce the effect Waring desired. He might have 
 passed as a poor curate of scholarly habit as he went 
 peering through the station to the world outside. 
 
 So great was the respect Waring had for the vigi- 
 lance of the Red Colonel and his spies that he spent 
 
 258
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 most of the afternoon in making futile journeys into 
 the out districts, getting in and out of trains and 
 watching narrowly for the appearance of any man who 
 might be shadowing him. Hours of this occupation 
 proved to Waring that he had at least got into London 
 without observation, and he returned to the city and 
 set about the task of finding obscure lodgings. These 
 he secured in two rooms in Doughty Street, situate in 
 the heart of Bloomsbury, and from these rooms, which 
 he furnished simply, Waring started out upon his in- 
 vestigations. One of his first cares was to raid the 
 second-hand shops for suitable clothing, for Waring 
 realized that the mark of the country parson was too 
 obvious as a disguise if he were to appear in the same 
 localities day after day and to pursue all sorts of un- 
 expected inquiries. 
 
 The days sped on, and Waring settled down to trace 
 the activities of the Red Colonel, or of Henry Gay- 
 thorne, by simply watching his movements. But he 
 had not been many days at the task before he realized 
 how difficult it was going to be for him to associate 
 the fashionable Mr. Gaythorne with any of the under- 
 currents of London's crime. Gaythorne went about 
 much and passed from and to his house at irregular 
 intervals throughout the day. But only once did he 
 leave on foot, and on that occasion Waring followed 
 all his movements. They included a visit to a club in 
 Piccadilly and a quiet walk through St. James Park. 
 The jaunt was purely the idle stroll of a man of fash- 
 ion whose morning was empty of engagements. War- 
 ing's difficulty in most cases was to follow Gaythorne 
 at all, for usually he left 32 Beddoes Street by motor, 
 
 259
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 and was whirled rapidly away. Waring tried going 
 after his man by taxicab. The hunt ended in the game 
 outrunning the hound and disappearing altogether in 
 most cases. On the few occasions when Waring was 
 able to keep up, the movements of Gaythorne were 
 devoid of suspicion or ended hurriedly in railway sta- 
 tions. So far as Waring could see after observing 
 the house in Beddoes Street, Gaythorne went out as 
 Gaythorne and returned openly as he went out. His 
 comings and goings had not more significance than 
 might have been attached to the movements of any 
 wealthy bachelor. 
 
 At 32 Beddoes Street, after persistent observation, 
 Waring was forced to admit no espionage was likely 
 to produce any proof of a dual identity. Whatever 
 Gaythorne might do when he escaped observation, 
 Waring, so far as he could follow the man's life, found 
 him to be Gaythorne all the time. 
 
 Many people called at the house. Some were quite 
 well known and Waring was able to recognize many of 
 them. Most appeared to be men and women moving 
 in much the same circles as Gaythorne affected. The 
 rest were obviously tradesmen and their representa- 
 tives. The few tests Waring made by following the 
 callers leaving Gaythorne's house proved useless. He 
 ran only into a routine of good repute. One man he 
 followed disappeared into the House of Commons, 
 saluted as he passed by the watchful police. Another 
 found sanctuary in the Athenseum Club. A well-dressed 
 youth and a lady dawdled through picture galleries and 
 shops in Bond Street and finally trailed Waring back 
 to a house of the highest repute in Berkeley Square. 
 
 260
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 There was nothing sinister about the movements of 
 any one going to the house, 32 Beddoes Street, and it 
 became very evident Gaythorne, whatever his life 
 might be, kept his social existence in the West End 
 rigidly apart from any of the sinister influences with 
 which Waring had good reason for believing he was 
 associated. 
 
 For days the hunt was a problem to Waring, and 
 he had begun to despair of ever connecting Gaythorne 
 with another life beyond the one he lived as a social 
 butterfly. Waring, in a variety of disguises, was re- 
 duced to trying to time his arrival at Gaythorne's door 
 in the hope that he would succeed in overhearing some 
 unusual instruction given by the owner to the man 
 who drove the car. Three times he succeeded in catch- 
 ing the spoken direction, but never once was the hunt 
 of any service. A fashionable hotel, a hairdresser's 
 and a theater ticket office were all the addresses he 
 gained as to Gaythorne's movements on those particu- 
 lar days. It became clearer to Waring that in losing 
 the Warbler he had lost the one connecting link be- 
 tween Gaythorne and crime. The Warbler was not in 
 society, at least, and did not look plausible as a social 
 figure. Wherever Gaythorne met the Warbler was the 
 point Waring must discover before he could pursue 
 further investigations. 
 
 Such were Waring's reflections as he stood nearly 
 opposite 32 Beddoes Street on a Monday night, after 
 several days of fruitless watching. He had decided to 
 end his investigations, so far as they started from 
 Gaythorne's house, and his next step did not seem 
 very clear. In a hazy way he had half made up his 
 
 261
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 mind to watch Marylebone Station, in the hope that 
 the Warbler was paying attention to the possibility of 
 discovering Waring going to or coming from Missing- 
 ham. At the back of his mind was a desire to return to 
 Missingham, admitting failure for the moment, and 
 wait again for the appearance of one of the Red Four 
 to guide him back to the lost trail. 
 
 The night was dark, wet and cheerless. Beddoes 
 Street was deserted. Only an occasional cab drifted 
 slowly down the thoroughfare. The lights glistened on 
 the wet asphalt pavements. Waring, shabbily attired, 
 and looking as nearly like a street lounger, homeless 
 and out of work, as a careful selection of clothes could 
 make him, was standing in the shadows of the portico 
 of an empty house, a few yards further up the road, on 
 the opposite side to the house he was watching. A long 
 vigil had taxed Waring's patience to its limits, and if 
 he had considered his own personal inclinations he 
 would have left an hour before. Something dogged in 
 the man's nature kept Waring to his task, and he clung 
 to his corner in the portico, as much for shelter as for 
 the convenience of his observation. A near-by public 
 clock marked off the passing quarters; later and 
 further away, Stanley could hear the boom of Big Ben. 
 As the clocks had struck off the half hour after seven, 
 Waring had moved impatiently and then had settled 
 again in the shadow of the great doorway. It seemed 
 more than an hour to his tired imagination before the 
 clocks rang out another quarter the one before eight 
 o'clock. 
 
 Again he had moved impatiently, and again he had 
 settled down in the shadows. His attention to the 
 
 262
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 business in hand had relaxed for the moment from 
 sheer fatigue. Suddenly he heard the sound of an 
 opening door and a stream of light indicated that some 
 one was leaving Number 32. Stanley Waring's senses 
 drew together and his interest tautened. He waited 
 eagerly to see whether a vehicle was to be summoned. 
 With a feeling of relief he saw the big figure of Gay- 
 thorne standing in the doorway. He was buttoning a 
 heavy fur-lined coat across a white expanse of shirt. 
 The man stood in the light streaming outward from 
 the hall, looking carelessly up and down the wet gloom 
 of the empty street. The head of Delane, the butler, 
 appeared above the area railings, as he stood on the 
 steps of the open door. To Waring's joy, Gaythorne 
 walked down to the pavement alone and slowly passed 
 up the street to Mayfair Square, where a sharp turn to 
 the right brought the wayfarer direct into Piccadilly. 
 
 Somewhat surprised to find Gaythorne afoot, War- 
 ing let the man pass. He was twenty yards in front 
 and on the opposite side of the road before Waring 
 started in stealthy pursuit. As he left the shadow of 
 the doorway he saw the servant Delane looking after 
 the figure of his master now fading away in the gloom 
 and Waring almost faltered, as he wondered whether 
 his own abrupt appearance would arouse any sus- 
 picion. 
 
 The incidents in the following few minutes happened 
 so quickly that Waring had not much time to 
 wonder. 
 
 Gaythorne walked slowly and once or twice looked 
 round. Waring, on the other side of the street, crept 
 forward stealthily in the shadows of the buildings. 
 
 263
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Gaythorne reached the street corner fully forty yards 
 in front of Waring and stood for a second looking 
 round. Then Waring noticed he raised his hand under 
 the light of a street cab. His mind concentrated on 
 the man's movements, Stanley believed he was calling a 
 cab and hurried forward. 
 
 Within a few seconds a heavy motor car swung into 
 Beddoes Street at a speed that made even Waring 
 dizzy. He could see the big lights of the vehicle as it 
 came toward him furiously. A footstep, almost noise- 
 less, was sounding behind him. Instinctively he turned 
 round, for he had recognized the cat-like tread of Gay- 
 thorne's servant, Delane. 
 
 Gaythorne had turned the corner and disappeared. 
 There was no doubt of one fact Delane was pursuing 
 Waring. He had slipped on a coat, but was running 
 noiselessly and swiftly. 
 
 Before Stanley Waring could realize the situation, 
 Delane had sprung upon him and beyond a doubt, with 
 a mighty heave, was trying to throw Waring in the 
 way of the car now tearing down the street close up 
 to the curb at a terrific pace. 
 
 Waring braced himself to resist the rush, but Delane 
 had the momentum. 
 
 Waring felt himself swinging from the parapet and 
 falling backward into the roadway directly in front 
 of the rushing vehicle, when a strong arm grasped his 
 shoulder and swung him round and on to the pave- 
 ment. 
 
 The car rushed on, swerving as near to the curb as 
 possible, in a manner that could not be considered ac- 
 cidental. 
 
 264.
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Damn you!" Delane shouted, and turned to the 
 second man, who had interfered. 
 
 He did so in time to receive the full impact of a 
 weapon about the size of a policeman's truncheon, which 
 the third man wielded decisively. The club fell square 
 on Delane' s forehead with a sharp thud, and the serv- 
 ant sank to the ground, inert and helpless, his legs 
 crumpling under him. 
 
 "Don't stop to inquire run for it. Back, across 
 the road, first turning to the left. I'll be with you. 
 But move and sharp's the word." 
 
 The words were spoken by the stranger who set off 
 running as he finished shouting his warning to 
 Waring. 
 
 Surprised as he was, something about the curt, de- 
 cisive command set Stanley Waring moving. He found 
 the other man running swiftly and leading him. They 
 flew along the silent street together. Stanley noted the 
 recklessly driven car was turning, five hundred yards 
 away. 
 
 "Down here," the stranger gasped, still running 
 strongly. 
 
 Waring found himself following the man down an 
 ill-lit opening leading to a mews. The stranger seemed 
 to know his way, for he broke off again to the right, 
 through a dark alley, and at the end Waring saw the 
 lights of another street. 
 
 "Now walk," said the stranger tersely. "We are 
 safe." 
 
 When they turned into the main street at the end of 
 the dark passage a taxi was coming along. The man 
 stopped it. 
 
 265
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Get in," he said quickly to Waring. "Drive on, 
 cabby." 
 
 "Whereto?" 
 
 "Piccadilly Circus." 
 
 They were in the vehicle together. The taxi-cab 
 shot forward. It ran down the street, a thoroughfare 
 running parallel with Beddoes Street to Mayfair 
 Square. As it sped through the Square, Waring al- 
 most dazed by the rapidity of events, caught a glimpse 
 of a heavy form standing halfway between Beddoes 
 Street and the thoroughfare they had just left. 
 
 "H'm !" said a quiet voice, lazy in every note, though 
 its owner was still breathing heavily. "The Red 
 Colonel waits to hear that his juggernaut has crumpled 
 you up like a battered eggshell." 
 
 Waring knew the voice at once. 
 
 "If I were you, Dr. Waring," the stranger continued 
 coolly, "I should be careful when watching Number 32. 
 The Red Colonel has tumbled to your presence." 
 
 "Ganton, the newspaper man," gasped Waring. 
 
 "Yep queer start, wasn't it?" the other replied 
 lazily, settling himself on the cushions. "Next time 
 you get as near being dead as you were just now you'll 
 be lucky if you remain as alive as you are this minute."
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE cab was speeding along Piccadilly, but some 
 minutes elapsed before Waring could collect 
 his scattered senses. Very quickly he saw the 
 significance of the incidents as he reviewed them. 
 While he had been watching Gaythorne, Gaythorne had 
 not lost sight of Waring, or had rediscovered him, as 
 Waring had to admit to his chagrin. He could only 
 see the incidents in one light. Gaythorne had become 
 conscious of his persistent observation and, with char- 
 acteristic cunning, had developed a plan, swift in its 
 ruthless effect, to run Waring down in the public 
 streets. The Red Colonel, to use Ganton's words, had 
 "tumbled." 
 
 Victor Ganton was leaning back and blowing clouds 
 of cigarette smoke through the open window. Since 
 Waring had first seen the man his appearance had 
 changed. He was now clean shaven. Devoid of the 
 moustache, much of Ganton's expression was altered 
 by the appearance of a firm mouth and a rugged jaw 
 which gave promise of more persistency than the quiet, 
 lazy manner he still affected would indicate to the 
 casual observer. 
 
 Ganton was chuckling rapturously to himself as if 
 he found the situation infinitely amusing. 
 
 "You have done me a great service," Waring began 
 at last. 
 
 "I have," Ganton drawled, throwing out another 
 267
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 cloud of cigarette smoke. "It is the luckiest hit I have 
 made these last two weeks. The value of my service is 
 just exactly equal to the value you set on your life." 
 
 "I should like to say " Waring began. 
 
 "Yes, I know. Thanks awfully and so on," Ganton 
 interrupted lazily. "Cut it all out. I'm not working 
 for gratitude. What I want is the Red Colonel." 
 
 "But, still, I do owe you my life," Waring insisted. 
 
 "You do," Ganton replied. "That's just where we 
 are. If you remember, I said I should prove my bona 
 fides the night I called to see you at Missingham. Do 
 you consider I have done so." 
 
 As he spoke Ganton smiled his tired, world-weary 
 smile, and blew another wreath of smoke out of the cab 
 window. 
 
 "I do," Waring answered decisively. 
 
 "Well we are getting on," Ganton said, and his 
 languid manner altered. "Listen, because I've not 
 much time. This is how I figure it ! You know the Red 
 Colonel. I have only just spotted him. You know 
 what Copeland held over these men why they put him 
 out. You have the key, and I well, I have some of the 
 clues. If you believe my proofs that I am trustworthy 
 let us pool our common knowledge. We'll be stronger 
 together. Where do you stand?" 
 
 "I cannot connect Gaythorne with anything even re- 
 motely suspicious and I've lost the other man the 
 Warbler." 
 
 "Well if I prove my identity and find the Warbler 
 for you, will you tell me all you know about Gay- 
 thorne?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 268
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 The cab was slipping into Piccadilly Circus. It 
 pulled up opposite the Pavilion Theater. Both men 
 got out and discharged the vehicle. 
 
 "Now let us take another, on the odd chance the 
 Red Colonel's select circle were on to our number." 
 
 Ganton stopped a vehicle crawling across the 
 Circus. 
 
 "Daily Intelligence, Fleet Street," Ganton said 
 briskly to the listening driver. 
 
 Within a few minutes they were speeding along the 
 Strand and into Fleet Street. Down one of the narrow 
 byways the cab stopped before a huge office, lit out- 
 side by immense arc lamps. On either side of the big 
 door labeled "editorial" were plates announcing the 
 premises as the headquarters of the Daily Intelligence. 
 Ganton strode through the folding doors and dashed 
 into the lift. On the second floor Waring found him- 
 self following his new friend through passages reeking 
 with hot air and the odors of ink, oil and paper subtly 
 intermixed. Messengers were running about the cor- 
 ridors. Below one heard the rumble of heavy machin- 
 ery, the movement of which seemed to set the building 
 trembling from floor to ceiling. 
 
 With assured confidence Ganton stopped before a 
 door, knocked softly and walked into the room. 
 
 Waring followed into a dignified office, surprisingly 
 different from anything he expected to see in neWs- 
 paperland. The room was heavily carpeted. The fur- 
 niture was highly polished. Two luxurious easy-chairs 
 were drawn up before a big fire. Some notably good 
 etchings and a few photographs were on the walls. Not 
 a loose paper was about the room. 
 
 269
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 As Ganton and Waring entered a lean Scotchman in 
 evening clothes, seated in one of the padded chairs 
 reading an evening paper, looked round. 
 
 "Dr. Waring the editor of The Daily Intelligence, 
 Mr. Robert Macnaughten," Ganton said by way of in- 
 troduction. 
 
 "What's going?" asked Macnaughten briefly. 
 
 Waring did not quite see the purpose of the impend- 
 ing interview. 
 
 "Question of identity," smiled Ganton. "Say Mac- 
 naughten, who am I?" 
 
 "Victor Ganton," the editor replied. He betrayed 
 neither interest nor surprise. 
 
 "What am I?" Ganton asked. 
 
 The editor smiled. 
 
 "I would say a genius, only you would stab me for 
 another jump on the salary list," sighed the editor. 
 "I'm prepared to admit you are a highly valued mem- 
 ber of my staff." 
 
 "How long have you known me?" 
 
 Macnaughten smiled again. 
 
 "Fifteen years," he answered. "Like fifteen years 
 of matrimony, it seems longer." 
 
 "What color am I?" 
 
 "White," the editor answered instantly and, though 
 his manner had not changed, he seemed to have gath- 
 ered the reason for the strange conversation. 
 
 Macnaughten turned to Waring. 
 
 "If this is for Dr. Waring's satisfaction, I may add 
 Ganton is white all through. The Daily Intelligence 
 has to be very particular about the character of its 
 representatives. I could say much more, but Ganton 
 
 270
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 is a susceptible man, and if I praise him to his face he 
 is sure to ask for more money." 
 
 Waiting's expression showed he was content with the 
 proof so casually offered to him. 
 
 "Thanks," he said slowly. "I think Ganton is right. 
 We have met under peculiar conditions and proof of 
 identity is necessary. I am satisfied." 
 
 Ganton turned toward the door, motioning Waring 
 to follow him. 
 
 "Sorry to trouble you, chief," he said easily as he 
 turned to go. "Thanks for the brief. Good story in 
 the offing. So long." 
 
 They were in the passage together outside the edi- 
 tor's room. 
 
 "I need hardly say I shall value your cooperation," 
 Waring said to Ganton. 
 
 "Good I think we shall pull together," Ganton re- 
 plied, his manner vastly elated. "Time is short," he 
 added. 
 
 "I'll tell you all I know at once," Waring volun- 
 teered. 
 
 "No," replied Ganton. "I have a pressing engage- 
 ment. I want you to leave me for a few hours. Keep 
 quiet and out of the way. As the Red Four are on to 
 you don't go to your rooms. Whatever you do, avoid 
 getting killed. I should go to a music hall and into the 
 pit, if I were you, and meet me here at the offices about 
 twelve." 
 
 Waring quickly assented and the two men parted at 
 the big door under the arc lamps. 
 
 At ten o'clock the Cafe Egypt was busy and its busi- 
 ness of remaking a characteristic atmosphere a blend 
 
 271
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 of cigar and cigarette smoke, patchouli, and alcoholic 
 fumes was in full blast. Almost as the big chiming 
 clock, one of the most conspicuous features of the 
 cafe, struck the hour among several newcomers troop- 
 ing up the steps was the quiet-mannered Major, who 
 had become a well-known habitue of the rooms. 
 
 The proprietor, watching every servant to see that 
 none of the loosely handled money of those who 
 thronged the cafe missed its way into the till, nodded 
 to the elderly military man as he stood blinking in the 
 strong light, and surveyed the rooms in a quest for a 
 quiet corner. 
 
 "You are late to-night," the proprietor said. 
 
 "And yet in good time," the other answered gently. 
 "The night is young. Tell Tom to bring me absinthe. 
 The little green devil, you know eh? I could not do 
 my graft without the little green devil." 
 
 "What is your graft?" the proprietor asked curi- 
 ously. 
 
 A big man, standing at the bar, set down a tumbler 
 and looked round. 
 
 The odd figure of the old soldier seemed detached 
 from his surroundings. He was raising his hat with 
 an old-world politeness to a smiling girl in the opposite 
 corner of the room. His mind did not seem to be on 
 its guard, as he turned to the proprietor and absently 
 fingered his long, white mustache. 
 
 "Ah!" he said slowly. "There are secrets in most 
 lives given over to the little green devil. Its victims 
 have not to be particular. As a man of the world 
 
 The soldierly man stopped as if he were suddenly 
 conscious of the significance of what he was saying. 
 
 272
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 He tapped a cigar end lying on the floor with his ma- 
 lacca cane. 
 
 "No matter. Tell Tom, the English waiter the 
 usual poison. The green devil eh? Yes that's my 
 graft the little green devil." 
 
 He went his way through the crowded room. 
 
 The proprietor smirked. 
 
 "Some kind of a crook, I think," he said, turning to 
 a friend. "I can't tumble to his lay, but then one 
 can't expect a pedigree with every one who comes here. 
 He always behaves himself, anyway." 
 
 The heavy man, leaning against the bar, unloosed his 
 great coat. He remained absently sipping his drink 
 and occasionally looking round the room. He noted 
 that the man whose appearance was familiar to him, the 
 man he knew as Major, had found a seat opposite to a 
 smiling girl whose color was heightened by rouge and 
 whose eyes were unusually bright the girl he ad- 
 dressed as Stella. 
 
 The watching man at the bar saw the elderly man 
 served with absinthe. He noticed his usual actions a 
 word or two with the English waiter, Tom, a laughing 
 sally for the girl who sat on the opposite side of the 
 table. He saw the old man select his two lumps of 
 sugar, and sprinkle them slowly with spots of water, 
 idly watching the syrup drip into the glass beneath 
 the spoon. The Major looked a typical victim of habit 
 as he sat observing the dripping syrup turn the spirit 
 from a bright green to a cloudy white. With great 
 content he lifted the glass to his lips at the end of the 
 tedious preparation. 
 
 The man at the counter, Italian in manner, but with 
 273
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 a pronounced Jewish nose, looking somewhat bloated in 
 his evening dress and coat with heavy astrachan collar, 
 remained watching until the Major had settled down. 
 
 He did not know that between Stella and the elderly 
 lounger there existed a confidence which was finding 
 expression. Amid a mass of the very persiflage that 
 made them usual people in an unusual picture and fixed 
 them as habitues of the Cafe Egypt, the girl said about 
 three serious phrases. 
 
 "They were talking of you last night," she said, 
 laughing as if she were conducting a flirtation. "They 
 asked me pointblank whether you were white or black." 
 
 "My pretty madcap," the old man said smilingly, 
 and he patted the girl's gloved hand as it lay on the 
 table, "what did you say?" 
 
 "Black," she answered gaily. 
 
 "An excellent jest, a pretty phrase," the Major said 
 gently. "It reminds me of the nursery rhyme. You 
 know it : 'Baa, baa, black sheep.' " 
 
 Her glance was fixed on his face and two yards away 
 from them you would have said the woman, Stella, was 
 using her eyes as women do use their eyes in the Cafe 
 Egypt. 
 
 "They will ask you to-night," she said, smiling as if 
 she were talking of kisses. "Go warily," she urged, still 
 smiling. "They are more than dangerous." 
 
 He raised his glass and spoke gaily for an old man. 
 
 "To your eyes," he said, "they are beautiful eyes. 
 They look as if they would see much. I will mention 
 your eyes to Macnaughten my editor." 
 
 At that moment, the man at the bar, the man we 
 know as the Warbler, made up his mind. He drank off 
 
 274
 
 His eyes wandered over the girl's face. Bold, dark, cunning, 
 their glance seemed to carry a message."
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 the fluid remaining in his glass and then carelessly 
 threaded his way through the table and chairs to the 
 old man and the young girl, who sat together. 
 
 He seated himself as a stranger might at the same 
 table, called a waiter and ordered coffee and cigarettes. 
 
 For a few moments he read an evening paper. Then 
 he looked restlessly about the room. His eyes wandered 
 over the girl's face. Bold, dark, cunning, their glance 
 seemed to carry a message. 
 
 The girl moved quietly away and joined two more 
 friends at another table a typical clean shaven man 
 about town and a wizened old-young man with spec- 
 tacles, who might have been a law or medical student 
 living in some single room in Bloomsbury. 
 
 Almost as soon as she had gone the Warbler fixed his 
 glance upon the old man who was still looking sadly 
 into his glass of absinthe, oblivious to his surround- 
 ings. 
 
 "You come here often," he said, leaning across the 
 table. 
 
 The old man started at being suddenly addressed. 
 A spoon fell from the table. 
 
 "Yes yes," he said, "often very often. The little 
 green devil, you know," he explained, "and, besides, the 
 place is very amusing." 
 
 "You come only for amusement?" the Warbler 
 asked with a shrug. 
 
 The Major raised his head and his tired old eyes met 
 the Warbler's unscrupulous glance. 
 
 "Not always for amusement," he said with a reserved 
 smile. "There is sometimes business for me in this hell- 
 hole." 
 
 275
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Let me see, you are Major " the Warbler 
 
 paused interrogatively. 
 
 "Major yes. They know me by that title," the 
 old man said. 
 
 "Major what is your English name?" asked the 
 Warbler. 
 
 "Only Major here," the military -looking man re- 
 plied. "They know me by that title and by that 
 only. They know me and yet they do not." He 
 shrugged his shoulders as he spoke. "It is better 
 so." 
 
 "Suppose I give you a lay what?" the Warbler 
 said after a pause, during which he seemed to be weigh- 
 ing his words. 
 
 "White or black?" the Major asked curiously. 
 
 "Black," the Warbler snapped, and his big jaws 
 clicked. 
 
 The Major balanced the spoon upon his glass. 
 
 "I am aging," he said pensively. "I am not so ac- 
 tive. I have not seen much money of late. If there 
 were money in your lay, I might " 
 
 The Warbler took out a card and scribbled on it 
 rapidly. 
 
 He held it for a moment, after completing the scrib- 
 ble as if yet undecided, his glance fixed thoughtfully 
 on the old, aristocratic, official face. 
 
 "You'll do," he said at last. "You have what we 
 need the face. And there will be money much 
 money. You will come with that to-morrow at the 
 midday hour eh?" 
 
 The Major slipped the pasteboard in his pocket, 
 after eyeing it thoughtfully. 
 
 276
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 He stroked his moustaches gently and smiled mean- 
 ingly- 
 
 "If you will order me a little one a little of the 
 green devil I will come to-morrow. There is not much 
 money in London for old men. I shall hope to see 
 more." 
 
 The Warbler with a grin, which included a barely 
 concealed expression of contempt for the other's weak- 
 ness, called a waiter and later left the Major smiling 
 across to Stella over his second absinthe.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 AT midnight Waring was pacing the pavement 
 outside The Daily Intelligence office, waiting 
 for his new friend, Victor Ganton. 
 
 The city clocks were just striking the hour when a 
 man turned the corner from out of Fleet Street and 
 walked slowly along in the direction of Waring. Stan- 
 ley watched the man until he came in full view, under 
 the nearest street lamp, and then turned on his heel 
 to resume his walk up and down the fifty yards of pave- 
 ment fronting the newspaper office. Obviously this old 
 white-mustached gentleman in the silk hat, probably 
 one of the retainers of the many newspapers about, had 
 no interest for him. 
 
 He was walking on slowly and the man he had 
 scrutinized had almost caught him up. Waring 
 was anticipating the stranger would shoot by, 
 and leave him in solitary possession of the thorough- 
 fare. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Waring," a voice said behind 
 him, the voice of an aging man with which he was not 
 familiar. 
 
 Waring took no notice of the words beyond stepping 
 off the pavement into the street. 
 
 "I said good evening, Mr. Waring," the voice went 
 on, insistently. 
 
 Stanley stopped in his walk and turned to the new- 
 comer. 
 
 278
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "There is some mistake," he said with frigid polite- 
 ness. 
 
 The man still persisted in addressing Waring. 
 
 "You are waiting for Ganton eh?" he said confi- 
 dently. 
 
 Waring looked at the military stranger suspiciously 
 and at once jumped to the conclusion that there was a 
 complication of the new situation. 
 
 "I am waiting for a friend connected with The In- 
 telligence," he said icily. "I don't know the man you 
 name." 
 
 The elderly stranger smiled. 
 
 "It is a tribute to my disguise," he replied. "But 
 you do well to be discreet." 
 
 The Major, habitue of the Cafe Egypt, was smiling 
 youthfully. With a brisk motion, his hand went up to 
 his face. The whole of the heavy white moustache 
 came away with the movement. Waring found himself 
 staring with some astonishment into Ganton's face. 
 
 "I think I have earned a supper," he said easily. 
 "Suppose you join me at the Newspaper Club." 
 
 An hour later, in the somber rooms of a club situate 
 in one of the many narrow courts off Fleet Street, War- 
 ing and Ganton were discussing the situation so far as 
 they both knew it. Waring had told Ganton the sub- 
 stance of Copeland's statement, withholding the details 
 of the clews, with the exception of the print of a hand 
 marked by Copeland with the name of the Red Colonel. 
 He had also explained the incidents happening imme- 
 diately after the murder of Vesta Copeland's step- 
 father, including the visit paid to the Black Lion by 
 Gaythorne, Waring's knowledge of Mark James, the 
 
 279
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 murdered solicitor, and the appearance of Gaythorne 
 and Cunning at Wayside Lodge, leading to the destruc- 
 tion of the latter by his chief, the Red Colonel. 
 
 "I have no doubt from the talk I heard between 
 Cunning and Gaythorne, the murder of Copeland was 
 actually carried out by Gaythorne himself. The ap- 
 pearance of the hand on the banknote coincides with 
 the print left by Paul Copeland, except in one par- 
 ticular. In the clew left after the first murder the 
 fourth finger of the hand was missing. I gathered from 
 what Cunning said that the Red Colonel had deliber- 
 ately made a three-fingered print to place suspicion on 
 his servant who only had three fingers." 
 
 Ganton nodded as he sipped his coffee. 
 
 "Clear enough," he said. "What surprises me is the 
 police attached no undue importance to the fact that 
 the second man done to death at Missingham had only 
 three fingers. That confirmed me in the guess I made 
 when I saw Paul Copeland's body and led me to try to 
 find out whether you knew more than you had said. 
 There is a secret, of course," Ganton said slowly. 
 
 "Yes," admitted Stanley. "There is a big hoard of 
 booty gathered in the past and hidden away by Cope- 
 land. I have all the indications that show where it is 
 and will show them to you at the proper time." 
 
 "Good," Ganton said slowly. "Our position now is 
 obviously to find some means of identifying Gaythorne 
 as the companion and leader of my friend the War- 
 bler." 
 
 "Your friend," Waring said with a note of surprise. 
 
 "Yes," said the newspaper man triumphantly. "I 
 got my line on him to-night." As he spoke, he drew 
 
 280
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 from his waistcoat pocket a card such as might be 
 used by any representative of a legitimate business. 
 
 Stanley Waring turned it over curiously. He read 
 the inscription "Gabriel and Worth General Agents, 
 15 Warden Street, W." Across the card was scrawled 
 in pencil: "Admit bearer to see partners, midday." 
 
 Waring looked from the card to Ganton. 
 
 "I do not quite see the connection," he said, puzzled. 
 
 "No I admit it is difficult," Ganton replied. "Per- 
 mit me to suggest you note the initial letters of the 
 two names Gabriel and Worth. G perchance Gay- 
 thorne; W probably our friend the Warbler. A co- 
 incidence perhaps but significant, is it not." 
 
 "It sounds a little far-fetched," Waring argued 
 grudgingly. 
 
 "But not when you hear my story," Ganton ex- 
 plained. "I told you the night when I met you first 
 at Missingham that I had never seen Cunning, Cope- 
 land or the Red Colonel. But twenty years ago I did 
 see the Warbler. He was singing in a New York opera 
 company and was crooked. I knew that. It was touch 
 and go that I did not bring home to him a share in a 
 theater panic. I had a straight line on him, but he 
 was too clever. I saw him twice after he disappeared 
 from the operatic stage, and each time I was beating 
 up the Red Four. I had proof he was one of the Red 
 Four. And then they disappeared. I never saw him 
 again until I met him entering the Cafe Egypt, three 
 months ago. Since then I have watched the man al- 
 most daily. I know many things about the Warbler." 
 
 Briefly, Ganton narrated the steps he had taken 
 how he or his friends members of a staff he had spe- 
 
 281
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 cially drawn round himself, including the girl Stella 
 and the two men in whose company he had left her 
 had watched, waited and inquired, and had drawn 
 nearer to the man, by posing as creatures of the night 
 life of the West End, living well, without visible means 
 of subsistence. 
 
 "And to-night," added Ganton significantly; "the 
 man who gave me that card was the Warbler. He be- 
 lieves I am an old crook. To-morrow," he added with a 
 smile, "he is going to ask me to do a job for him. I 
 think we shaU be a little nearer to the Red Colonel 
 after to-morrow morning." 
 
 "What were you doing in Beddoes Street?" asked 
 Waring curiously. 
 
 "I heard the name of the street used at the Cafe 
 Egypt," Ganton replied. "It struck me to inquire 
 further in that direction. I discovered nothing in my 
 three visits but yourself. I saw you there each visit I 
 made and I watched you. That accounts for my in- 
 tervention." 
 
 The two men stared at each other thoughtfully. 
 
 "It comes to this," Waring said at last. "I know 
 Gaythorne is the Red Colonel, but I have no useful 
 proof. You know the Warbler, but you cannot asso- 
 ciate him with Gaythorne. If we act against the War- 
 bler we lose the worst of the gang the leader." 
 
 "Yes ; but I think if I show you the Warbler, you 
 will find one of the men who meets him often is your 
 friend Gaythorne, and that is what we shall establish 
 to-morrow, if I am not very much mistaken." 
 
 They remained talking until early in the morning 
 and finally both turned in at the club, their arrange- 
 
 282
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ment being to journey to Warden Street before noon, 
 Ganton to keep his appointment and Waring to watch 
 outside the premises. 
 
 It was eleven o'clock when Waring reached Warden 
 Street. Number 15 proved to be a set of rooms over a 
 stage costumer's place of business. Waring had es- 
 sayed a new disguise. He had adopted a suit of soiled 
 clothes worn to shabbiness that was almost shiny. A 
 blue neck handkerchief was about his throat. A bat- 
 tered cap came well down over his eyes. Smoking a 
 cigarette in a street crowded with shabby people, 
 he looked exactly what he pretended to be the type of 
 man who belongs to the casual laboring class and might 
 be anything from a petty criminal to a seeker of odd 
 jobs in the streets. 
 
 By a stroke of good luck Waring found in front of 
 the premises No. 15 Warden Street, on the other side 
 of the road, a frowsy coffee shop and cheap eating 
 house, where men of his assumed type repaired to eat 
 and to idle over draughts and dominoes. He entered 
 about the hour of eleven and ordered a cheap break- 
 fast. The shop was very quiet and he obtained a 
 seat commanding the shop window and overlooking the 
 entrance to the premises that were to be the scene of 
 the "Major's" engagement. 
 
 Nor had he long to wait for interesting incidents. 
 Almost immediately after eleven a big man appeared 
 and walked without hesitation into No. 15. There 
 was no doubt about him he was the Warbler, dressed 
 with a curiously exaggerated air of smartness, exactly 
 as Waring had seen him the first morning the Italian 
 had met the train from Missingham and trailed Waring 
 
 283
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 through the town to the solicitor's office in Temple 
 Court. 
 
 Waring ate slowly and watched closely, but nothing 
 very unusual occurred at No. 15 for many more min- 
 utes after the passage of the Warbler. There was a 
 number of callers, made up mostly of young men, with 
 that furtive, pallid air that blinks before the daylight 
 and suggests, if not actual vice, life burned up in the 
 night life of a city and spent in vitiating atmosphere. 
 
 The hour was nearing twelve, and Waring was still 
 gazing fixedly at the premises opposite. 
 
 Very slowly there came down the street a man clad 
 in the rough blue pilot cloth worn by certain types of 
 riverside workers when on holiday. The clothes were 
 loose, shop-made, coarse and ill-fitting. A cheap bow- 
 ler was on the man's head. The frame of the wearer 
 of these clothes was unusually big ; he was obviously a 
 man of enormous strength. The face was slightly 
 browned. The jaws were working as if the man were 
 chewing tobacco. A moustache, coarse in texture, 
 drooped with the damp, careless limpness one only asso- 
 ciates with coarse, self-indulgent workers who idle in 
 cheap bars. And yet there was no doubt about the 
 man. He was Gaythorne. 
 
 Waring gasped as he saw the ponderous figure. The 
 daring of the transformation compelled his admiration. 
 There was no pretence of disguise beyond that neglec- 
 ted mustache and the slightly bronzed face. Gay- 
 thorne, superbly tailored, man of the world, trusted 
 entirely to the protection of a change in his clothes. 
 The intimates who knew the spruce man about town 
 would simply not see him in his coarse, ill-made, loosely 
 
 284
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 hanging garments as he walked with a slouching gait 
 through the mean streets of the town. 
 
 Gaythorne the Red Colonel at last his carriage 
 subtly altered to fit his clothes, lurched rather than 
 walked into the open door of No. 15. 
 
 Almost on his heels came a trim, shabby, elderly fig- 
 ure, military in its neatness. The hat seemed to have 
 been over-ironed. The prim frock coat was brushed 
 threadbare. The worn trousers, neatly pressed, com- 
 pleted the atmosphere of shabby gentility. Tapping 
 the roadway with a silver-mounted malacca cane, the 
 Major walked languidly to the door the Red Colonel 
 had used. He stood for a moment, stroking his white, 
 carefully waxed moustache, on the steps of the premises, 
 and looked absently up and down the street. Then 
 he, too, walked up the steps leading to the first floor 
 occupied by those mysterious general agents, Messrs. 
 Gabriel and Worth.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE Major, or Victor Ganton, of The Daily In- 
 telligence, walked into the rooms No. 15, War- 
 den Street, Soho, and found them very much 
 as other premises are in the Soho district slightly 
 mysterious. 
 
 The ground floor rooms were occupied by a dark- 
 skinned dealer in the meats and condiments of all na- 
 tions. The cosmopolitan population of Soho looked, 
 in part, to him for the foodstuffs on which they had 
 been reared. His stock included the sausage, sauce and 
 pickles of every European country, labeled as their 
 titles are spoken throughout the capitals of the world. 
 He dealt also in the common dishes of oriental peoples. 
 One could get the basis of a bird's-nest soup or tinned 
 shark's fin from Mr. Terrissi, or such things as a Neo- 
 politan ice, a packet of chewing gum, or a jar of olives. 
 He would also sell you the foreign papers, journals 
 relating to anarchy and distributed secretly, a set of 
 tips for the day's racing, a wide assortment of prepa- 
 rations for the hair, face powders, manicure sets and 
 strange medicines. 
 
 The headquarters of the Warbler were reached by 
 the private door on the right of this interesting shop. 
 The visitor climbed a set of steps to the first floor a 
 passage pervaded by a very definite atmosphere. Ex- 
 perienced people would easily place that atmosphere. 
 Struck at noon, it was obviously the tired aftermath of 
 
 286
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 a club life that begins at ten o'clock each night and 
 ends with the daylight. The set of rooms on the first 
 floor were closed when Victor Ganton ascended the 
 stairs ; but a much less shrewd man than he was would 
 have nosed out the fact that the first floor of No. 15 
 was a night club and that gaming was perhaps the 
 most innocent of its attractions. 
 
 The second floor had three doors clustered round the 
 shabby landing. On each was printed the name "Ga- 
 briel and Worth General Agents," while on one door 
 a further sign added the information, "Office." 
 
 On this door Victor Ganton knocked, and a smart 
 typist querulously suggested he should enter. 
 
 When he reached the outer office he found the owner 
 of the querulous voice was a dark-skinned, good-look- 
 ing young Jewess, who, obviously, in her working mo- 
 ments was not too much concerned about her personal 
 appearance. 
 
 She looked up sharply as the Major entered, saw 
 him as he seemed, an aging, weak figure of a man in 
 the first, well-brushed stage of the shabby genteel, and 
 with a sniff implying some contempt went on with her 
 typing. 
 
 The Major, leaning on the counter, stroked his 
 white moustaches sadly and noted the appearance of the 
 outer office. 
 
 It was a very typical product of the meaner business 
 streets of London. The furniture was cheap ; the place 
 was dusty; the windows were almost fogged through 
 the neglect of the cleaner. An old roll-top desk was 
 in one corner near the window. The typist worked at 
 a smaller desk, in the center of the room, the floor space 
 
 287
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 of which was divided from the entrance by a counter. 
 On the walls were faded pictures of steamships, state- 
 ments made by insurance companies indicating bound- 
 less capital, and, framed and yellowing under the 
 cracked glass, a photograph of the Bank of Eng- 
 land. 
 
 The girl finished her task, took out the copied page 
 and looked at it critically. Then she turned to the 
 man with the heavy white moustache. 
 
 "What d'ye want in this joint?" she asked, crisply. 
 It was evident to the Major the lady had been im- 
 ported from New York. 
 
 "Mr. Gabriel in yet?" asked the Major, politely. 
 
 "No," snapped the typist. 
 
 "Mr. Worth, perhaps eh?" he smiled. 
 
 "Well if he is," the Jewish girl asked. "You don't 
 think you can blow in here and ask for Mr. Gabriel or 
 Worth, and git in on either. This would be one busy 
 office if we passed up every rubber-stamp pedler on 
 his face. What d'ye want?" 
 
 "Mr. Gabriel or Mr. Worth," he answered. "I am 
 not certain which." 
 
 He laid a card on the table. As the girl read the 
 penciled message her manner altered. 
 
 "Say," she said, sharply. "You excuse me for not 
 giving you the glad eye. I got to watch some of these 
 clever Alicks. I put you down as a nosey parker. 
 Take a seat." 
 
 She retired into an inner room and was absent for 
 but a few seconds. 
 
 "Mr. Worth will see you in five minutes," the girl 
 answered, and turned to resume her typing. 
 
 288
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 The Major sat out five minutes, idly stroking his 
 heavy moustache. The sound of talk going on in the 
 inner room reached him in a steady murmur. At the 
 end of an interval the door opened. A handsome, dis- 
 sipated-looking young man in ostentatiously good 
 clothes came out. He looked eagerly at the Major as 
 he passed. 
 
 "Good-by, Edie," he called as he walked through the 
 office. "See you Saturday night." 
 
 The Jewish girl looked up and smiled. 
 
 "And say," he called out, jerking his thumb over 
 his shoulder in the direction of Ganton, "the chiefs say 
 the new guy is to go in." 
 
 "This way," the girl said, opening the door. The 
 Major, though his temples were drumming a little, rose, 
 pulled himself together and then walked with the list- 
 less, furtive suggestion of shabby gentility he could 
 command at will into the presence of the men he knew 
 to be the Warbler and the Red Colonel. 
 
 The inner room into which he stepped was better 
 furnished. A crimson carpet was upon the floor. Two 
 highly colored easy chairs were in front of a fire, a 
 little table between them. A heavy boardroom table 
 occupied the center of the room. At its head sat the 
 man he now knew as the Warbler his silk hat at the 
 back of his head, a heavy cigar between his lips, his 
 brazen note of over-dressing accentuated by the flash 
 of a diamond pin from the pink knot that nestled in 
 the opening left by a white vest slip. 
 
 "Come in," he called, as the elderly soldierly man 
 stood hesitating painfully at the door. 
 
 Ganton walked to the chair assigned to him at the 
 289
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 big table and near the Warbler, who, he argued, was 
 no doubt Mr. Worth. 
 
 In one of the easy chairs, stretching himself, was a 
 rough-looking, heavy man, clad in blue pilot cloth, 
 loosely made, coarse and ill-fitting. 
 
 He was poring over a copy of a daily paper. On 
 the table at his elbow was a bottle of brandy, 
 and a stiff peg had been poured out into the glass 
 near it. 
 
 When the Major entered the second man looked up 
 quickly, eyed the newcomer for a second or two, and 
 then swung back into his chair and resumed his reading. 
 
 Seated, the Major looked at the second man. 
 
 "I understood this was a private matter," he said, 
 and his manner seemed more furtive than ever as he 
 met the eyes of Mr. Worth. 
 
 The big man at the table laughed. 
 
 "Oh! don't be scared of the other man," he said, 
 easily. "You need not trouble. He is what you would 
 call my partner our Mr. Gabriel." 
 
 The man in the easy chair stirred, looked at the 
 visitor, raised the glass to his lips, and lapsed back into 
 his former attitude. 
 
 "Yes we are both in," he said. "Our Mr. Worth 
 will cough up the story and he is talking for both of 
 us." 
 
 The Major nervously accepted the statement and 
 turned toward the man at the table. 
 
 The Warbler or Mr. Worth looked at him som- 
 berly for some seconds, chewing at the end of his 
 cigar. 
 
 "You understood me last night," he said, in a round 
 
 290
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 voice, almost musical in its quality. "I took it you 
 would come with us." 
 
 The Major stroked his white moustache. 
 
 "I don't know who you are or what you do," he said, 
 in gentle, deprecatory tones. "You said you had a 
 job for me. I want one." 
 
 "I have made inquiries about you," the Warbler an- 
 swered. "You are not particular eh?" 
 
 "If your inquiries were well directed, you must have 
 found out I am not particular. The times are bad and 
 I am getting old. A man must live." 
 
 Mr. Worth nodded his big Italian head, while Mr. 
 Gabriel stirred in the easy chair. 
 
 "Hand him the goods," said the latter, diving imme- 
 diately into the pages of the paper. "You are sure of 
 him, aren't you?" 
 
 "Well here are the chief points," the Warbler said, 
 at last. "We have a game. It is a trifle bold, but it 
 is easy, safe, and sure. We want a few mobsmen who 
 look like gentlemen." 
 
 The Major spread out his long hands nervously. 
 
 "I was once a gentleman," he said, submissively. "I 
 try at least to look like one even now, when " 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 "I understand," replied Mr. Worth. "What we ask 
 you to do is simple. On Friday you will meet me here 
 with all who are in this about a dozen. All you have 
 to do is to go to the Hotel Coburg, on Saturday eve- 
 ning before dinnertime, looking what you used to be a 
 gentleman. You will take a room the floor we shall 
 give you. You will have money that we shall also give 
 you. And you will take the room, about seven o'clock, 
 
 291
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 as I tell you, and remain there, dressing for dinner. 
 You will take time over this. The essence of our plan 
 is that you shall be in the room when the signal is given. 
 And when the signal is given you will go straight to two 
 other rooms on the same floor. You will collect quickly 
 all that is valuable in these rooms and join us here. 
 That is simple enough." 
 
 The Major stroked his moustache thoughtfully. 
 
 "Very simple but is it safe?" he asked at last. 
 "What happens when the signal is given." 
 
 "Pardon me," the Warbler answered, "that is our 
 secret. It is not necessary for you to know just that. 
 All I can tell you is that at the hour I state the hotel 
 will be thrown into some confusion. You will be able 
 to visit your two rooms without trouble or risk. There 
 will be valuable jewels there, and you will take every- 
 thing that is, everything easy to carry. And you will 
 join us here. You understand." 
 
 The Major nodded. 
 
 "Yes I think I follow you. I would prefer to have 
 your confidence." 
 
 The Italian face smiled. 
 
 "You are new to us," the Warbler said. "You must 
 prove yourself. Do you accept?" 
 
 The Major looked thoughtful for some seconds. 
 
 "Yes I accept," he said at last. "What is there in 
 this for me?" 
 
 The Italian watched him closely as he asked the 
 question. 
 
 "A fair half of all you bring away," he said signifi- 
 cantly. "That may be much or little. It all depends 
 on you, and the way you go about the work." 
 
 292
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "The rooms might be empty," the Major said slowly 
 and in his hesitating manner. 
 
 "The rooms we give you will not be empty. That is 
 our part of the lay the organization. You may rely 
 on our instruction the rooms will not be empty. It's 
 up to you. Yes or no do you come in?" 
 
 The elderly man nodded. 
 
 "Yes," he said, as one thinking aloud, "I muso trust 
 you. Even if nothing comes of it, the job will not take 
 up the whole evening. I shall be able to get back to the 
 Cafe Egypt, if the task is not as good as you say it 
 will be. I shall be able to look after my own little pick- 
 ings." 
 
 The big man in the easy-chair dropped his paper 
 suddenly and glanced up. 
 
 "Pickings," he said scornfully, and swore volubly. 
 "Why, there will be handfuls of stuff. I am afraid, 
 Steve, he is a little man. The question is, can we trust 
 him on a job like this?" 
 
 The Warbler turned in his chair. 
 
 "Leave that to me," he answered. "I know my man 
 and what he does. The Major has worked by himself 
 and in the little way. But we teach him the grand 
 method. The Major looks the part, and that is half 
 the battle. What say you, Major?" 
 
 The white hand fondled the big moustache. 
 
 "I stand in," he said, his tired voice shaking. "But 
 what is there in it for me ? I always expect to make a 
 tenner on the Saturday night." 
 
 The Warbler laughed. 
 
 "If you do as we tell you," he answered, "you can- 
 not fail to pull out a hundred. And, if we have the 
 
 293
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 luck, jour share may run to thousands. You are on 
 eh?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then be here on Friday," Worth suggested. "We 
 shall have a rehearsal at five o'clock. I will tell you 
 all the details then. The rest is silence, you under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Surely," said the Major, rising and moving toward 
 the door. 
 
 When he had gone the man in the esay-chair sud- 
 denly leaped to his feet. 
 
 "I tell you, Steve," he said almost fiercely, "I don't 
 like these outsiders. That man looks weak." 
 
 "He is," the Warbler assented. "But I have in- 
 quired. He is an old hawk, and if he is weak he's hun- 
 gry. And we cannot find enough of the right-looking 
 sort for this job. I know he is safe, and if he is hun- 
 gry he will do the work all the better." 
 
 Outside the Major was walking slowly toward 
 Shaftsbury Avenue, and as he left Warden Street a 
 young man lounged out of an eating house opposite to 
 the premises he had left.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 ON the evening of Friday, the day before the Sat- 
 urday set apart for the attack on the Hotel 
 Coburg, three men met at the offices of The 
 Daily Intelligence. 
 
 They were Waring, Victor Ganton and Superinten- 
 dent Malone of Scotland Yard. 
 
 Waring and Ganton had told all they knew about the 
 Red Colonel and how far they suspected Gaythorne of 
 being the central .criminal in a group originally known 
 as the Red Four. 
 
 Ganton had been once again to the rooms in War- 
 den Street, and had met there a queer collection of men 
 and women, who seemed to know each other and to 
 move to the suggestion of the Warbler. There was no 
 doubt in Ganton's mind that Messrs. Gabriel and 
 Worth, the unobtrusive general agents, who occupied 
 the shabby offices in Soho, were planning a coup at the 
 Hotel Coburg which promised rich pickings. 
 
 Superintendent Malone had heard the strange story 
 told by Waring and Ganton and, following the habit of 
 mind of men of the official class, had at first seemed 
 sceptical. But the chain of events as they were linked 
 together by Waring was convincing and had gradually 
 turned his mind from a negative attitude to a belief 
 that the matter outlined to him was worth serious in- 
 vestigation. The detective was inclined to believe Gan- 
 ton's side of the story was not so trustworthy, and 
 
 295
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 he could not see much significance in the suggestion 
 that a big raid was to be made on the fashionable hotel. 
 
 "How do you figure it?" Malone insisted, asking the 
 question for the third time. 
 
 "You have to take all I know for what it is worth," 
 Ganton suggested with his weary, languid air. "I can 
 only tell you what I have been engaged to do. The 
 matter is as clear as daylight, so far as it goes, but it 
 certainly does not go far enough to let us into the 
 whole secret. I am almost a stranger to the Warbler 
 and he has not trusted me as fully as he might. He 
 thinks I am a crook, and as I can look the part of a 
 prosperous hotel patron he has called me in. But he 
 has never worked with me before, and is very reticent." 
 
 "But what is his plan?" Malone answered dubiously. 
 "It might be just a bolt for a certain room and a hand- 
 ful of jewels. Certainly the scheme is not big enough 
 to justify Scotland Yard in getting excited." 
 
 Waring spoke decisively. 
 
 "I agree with Ganton," he said positively. "All I 
 know of these men shows they attempt but little on the 
 small scale. Ganton is right, Malone. You should be 
 on hand, and in force, at the Hotel Coburg on Satur- 
 day night." 
 
 "Yes," agreed Ganton, "this is no mere robbery of a 
 room in an hotel. I tell you, Malone, between the hour 
 of seven and eight o'clock the Red Colonel and the 
 Warbler will have not less than a dozen confederates 
 in the hotel even if they have no assistance among 
 the staff. And I would point out to you, the Hotel 
 Coburg represents a big prize at the present moment. 
 The King of Partonia is staying there incognito; 
 
 296
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Baron Rensh, the financier, of Paris, is over ; and there 
 is more than the usual sprinkling of American million- 
 aires, to say nothing of a famous Russian dancer with 
 jewels representing the spoils of twenty affairs, lying 
 about the Hotel Coburg to-night. The venture would 
 yield enough to justify the Red Colonel and his satel- 
 lites in taking a big risk to plunder the whole hotel.'* 
 
 "But what could happen?" asked Malone, still more 
 or less indifferent. 
 
 "I don't quite see that myself," Ganton replied, his 
 tired smile breaking again over his jaded features. 
 "But I do know there will be something big doing. In 
 some way known perhaps only to the Warbler and the 
 Red Colonel, the Hotel Coburg is to be at the mercy 
 of this group of criminals for a few minutes. I am 
 not the man who robs a room. I am one unit in a big 
 scheme. Look at this !" 
 
 As he spoke Ganton pulled out the contents of his 
 trouser pocket. A stream of sovereigns rolled on to 
 the table. There were twenty-five of them in all. 
 
 "That shows willing," he said significantly. "It 
 means business meant. This man, the Warbler, gave 
 me that. I am to go to the Coburg looking real good 
 as nearly like a gentleman as possible, whatever that 
 may mean. And I am to take a room as if I were a 
 regular patron in the hotel and to be there, dressing 
 for dinner, at seven o'clock. There is to be a signal. 
 The words are, 'Run, run.' When they are shouted- 
 shouted, mark you, not whispered I simply go out 
 and rifle two rooms, the numbers and plan of which I 
 have. That may seem to you like petty pilfering. To 
 me it looks as if I were to be part of a huge concerted 
 
 297
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 effort to rifle the whole hotel. Men like the Warbler 
 do not part with twenty-five pounds to a shady crook 
 on the off chance that he will rifle a room or two." 
 
 The superintendent scraped his chin dubiously. 
 
 <r Well, what do you think ?" he said, turning to War- 
 ing, whose history of the Red Colonel most commanded 
 his respect. 
 
 "I think Ganton is right," he Answered. "To-mor- 
 row I should have at least twenty men at the Hotel 
 Coburg. I should watch Gaythorne's house in Beddoes 
 Street to see when he goes out and when he returns. I 
 should keep an eye on No. 15 Warden Street to see who 
 moves about there. And, if I were you, I should have 
 one of your best men in Beddoes Street with a car 
 ready to follow this man Gaythorne. It is important 
 for us to know where he alters his appearance where 
 he ceases to be the man of fashion and becomes the 
 rough-hewn criminal both I and Ganton know to fre- 
 quent Warden Street." 
 
 Superintendent Malone rose from his chair, resumed 
 his hat, lit a cigarette and walked to the door. 
 
 Waring and Ganton eyed him anxiously. 
 
 "This is a funny line of goods you are handing out 
 to me," Malone said, as he paused at the door. "But 
 you have been right often enough to make me take no- 
 tice of the significance of the story," he added, ad- 
 dressing Ganton. "As for your friend Waring, I think 
 his theory of the three murders stands more than a 
 second look, and he has some evidence to back it. I'll 
 take a chance on your joint tip and to-morrow I will 
 be on hand as Waring suggests. I have a notion there 
 will be something doing after all." 
 
 298
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Nor was the superintendent mistaken. At six o'clock 
 the Hotel Coburg seemed to be quite normal. In the 
 huge palm lounge, the band had finished playing the tea 
 hour out. A few people still lingered, chattering in 
 the gorgeous court. In the American bar, the usual 
 cosmopolitan wealthy males, by the dozen, were taking 
 parti-colored drinks and passing world-worn compli- 
 ments to the trim waitresses who ministered to their 
 needs. The billiard room was busy, perhaps un- 
 wontedly so. In the spacious entrance hall guests were 
 coming in and out of the revolving doors some arriv- 
 ing, others departing or returning from eager quests 
 into the shopping centers. 
 
 Then came a lull in the busy routine of the fashion- 
 able Hotel Coburg. Those staying in the hotel were 
 killing the time between the afternoon and dinner 
 that no-man's hour when the women have retired or 
 are retiring to their rooms to contemplate evening 
 toilets, and the men dawdle about, over letters, even- 
 ing papers, billiards or gossip, before adopting the 
 white shirt front of a more or less blameless night life. 
 
 Only the management knew the staff had been aug- 
 mented by twenty representatives of Scotland Yard 
 men who were distributed about the hotel as servants, 
 guests and loungers and pursued their allotted roles, 
 unostentatiously, but always with a close eye on the 
 life going on about them in the busy, opulent hotel. 
 
 Inside the manager's room were three men in even- 
 ing clothes. They were Cyril Dudenay, the blonde 
 manager, Stanley Waring and Superintendent Malone. 
 
 Waring was perhaps the only embarrassed member 
 of the party. He was, in a great measure, responsible 
 
 299
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 for the extraordinary precautions that had been 
 taken to test Victor Ganton's theory. The two men 
 who kept him company did not conceal their belief 
 that Ganton had overstated the dangers of the situa- 
 tion. 
 
 By seven o'clock the dead hour of the hotel was 
 over. Things began to quicken up. A few ladies, stay- 
 ing in the hotel, appeared about the hall and in the 
 corridors, in luxurious evening gowns. More, escorted 
 by cavaliers, in the conventional black and white, be- 
 gan to throng in from the world outside. The hall, the 
 corridors, the various public rooms commenced to fill 
 up. The buzz of conversation grew into a steady 
 drone ; one heard the sound of tinkling, feminine laugh- 
 ter and the lower guffaw of the male; the orchestra 
 began to play for dinner; the pace of a huge staff of 
 waiters, in court costumes, quickened. 
 
 Inside the little room used by the manager overlook- 
 ing the entrance hall, the three men waited, all a little 
 excited, but two distinctly irritable and sceptical. 
 
 "Everything seems to be all right," Dudenay, the 
 hotel manager, said smilingly. "Same old Coburg 
 same old company." 
 
 "Yes," agreed Malone, almost diffidently. "I am 
 afraid we are putting you to a lot of trouble on a sort 
 of wild goose chase. Still, it is better you should not 
 take chances." 
 
 "Sure," agreed Dudenay, still smiling with his pro- 
 fessional zeal and looking quizzically at Waring, as he 
 offered a box of cigars to the superintendent. 
 
 "Wait," said Waring decisively. "I may be wrong 
 and Ganton may be wrong. But, at least, the signifi- 
 
 300
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 cance of what we have gathered justifies the Hotel Co- 
 burg in taking precautions to protect its guests." 
 
 They remained together in the little room surveying 
 the busy hall, themselves unobserved by the people 
 passing in and out. As the minutes dragged on, Du- 
 denay grew a trifle flippant and more and more in- 
 clined to belittle the precautions taken. Malone, a 
 typical official, became more irritable under the smil- 
 ing scorn of the hotel manager. Only Waring, who 
 knew the Red Colonel, maintained a composure that 
 corresponded with the serene faith he had in his own 
 and Ganton's judgment. 
 
 "There goes Ganton," he said at last, and the two 
 men joined him in the survey. Ganton, resplendent in 
 new tweed clothes, had entered the hall followed by a 
 porter with luggage. He looked exactly what the War- 
 bler had wanted him to seem a prosperous, elderly 
 military man. He was bargaining for a room with a 
 reception clerk, in a bored, tired, feeble manner, and 
 walked to the lift, as if the transaction had displeased 
 him. 
 
 "One swallow does not make a summer," Dudenay 
 said ironically, meeting the detective's eye. 
 
 "No; but there is a second swallow and perhaps a 
 third," Waring said, the stern set of his face carrying 
 conviction. 
 
 "Gaythorne," the manager ejaculated as he looked 
 in the hall. "And yet his appearance cuts no ice. He 
 comes here often." 
 
 "Humph! Who's the lady and the man with him?" 
 asked the detective. 
 
 "Ah !" said the manager suddenly, and unaccount- 
 301
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ably alarmed. "That is different. As a rule we know 
 Gaythorne's guests, but the people with him are 
 strangers to me." 
 
 The party had scarcely passed out of the hall when 
 Waring clutched Malone's arm. 
 
 "See," he said hurriedly, "the Warbler, and the 
 man I saw coming out of the offices in Warden 
 Street." 
 
 The detective did not know the Warbler, who looked 
 more theatrical than ever in his evening clothes, the 
 heavy collar of his fur-lined overcoat turned up. But 
 Superintendent Malone's attention had stiffened at the 
 sight of the other man. 
 
 "Dudenay," he said crisply, "Waring and Ganton 
 are both right. There's dirty work afoot. Whether 
 that is the Warbler or not, I know the buck with him. 
 I know enough of him always to expect trouble when 
 Chicago Alf appears in public." 
 
 As he spoke he touched a bell. One of his own men 
 in waiting in the next room appeared suddenly and 
 silently. 
 
 "Who are the two men going through the hall?" he 
 asked, pointing out the Warbler and his companion. 
 
 The officer, who was masquerading as an inter- 
 preter, surveyed the pair pointed out to him. 
 
 "Nix the big cove. I've never seen him. But the 
 second is Chicago Alf," he said positively. "I didn't 
 know he was in London." 
 
 "Watch them," Malone commanded with stern 
 brevity. 
 
 A clerk came into the room, responding to a sum- 
 mons by Dudenay. 
 
 302
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "How many rooms have been engaged since six- 
 thirty ?" Dudenay asked. 
 
 "Fifteen." The clerk withdrew as he spoke in re- 
 sponse to a sign from his manager. 
 
 "That's odd," said Dudenay, turning to the detect- 
 ive. "There is something different about the Hotel 
 Coburg to-night." 
 
 "Why?" asked Malone. 
 
 "Well, as a rule, the hours in which the fewest rooms 
 are let are between six and eight o'clock. Half a dozen 
 arrivals usually cover the time, as far as people engag- 
 ing rooms are concerned." 
 
 Dudenay, as he spoke, began to gnaw the end of his 
 cigar. The impossible story outlined by the detective, 
 from Ganton's warning, was beginning to sound true, 
 even to his ears. 
 
 The minutes dragged away and nothing unusual hap- 
 pened. The three men remained in the little room, 
 looking on the great entrance, gay now with the ar- 
 rival of many evening parties. The manager's mind 
 had cast off the spell of uneasiness, and he was still in- 
 clined to return to his former attitude and to make 
 light of Waring's fears and Malone's preparations. 
 The appearance of the man he called Chicago Alf had 
 stiffened Malone. He seemed now more suspicious than 
 either of the two other spectators of the strange 
 drama. Waring still watched and waited, but he could 
 not have outlined just the incidents he expected. The 
 clock in the hall softly chimed the third quarter after 
 seven. 
 
 Suddenly Waring's face grew grim with the concen- 
 tration of a man who hears a startling sound. 
 
 303
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Above the murmur of the busy hotel, as if the sound 
 came from one of the galleries, a few whistled notes 
 were piped clear and high. Despite the heavy scented 
 atmosphere, they took Waring back to the stillness of 
 Wayside Lodge. He had heard that whistled bar of 
 music rendered on two sinister nights, and the Warbler 
 had sung the same notes in a beautiful tenor voice out- 
 side his own house. 
 
 "Listen," he said, his face rigid, his manner impres- 
 sive and compelling the attention of the two men. "You 
 may believe or not, just as you like. It will not alter 
 the situation. I have heard that call before twice, and 
 each time a man died. The Red Colonel has given the 
 signal. The very air you breathe reeks of a danger I 
 cannot outline." 
 
 Dudenay stopped smiling. The detective ran toward 
 the hall. As if to confirm Waring's fears, a liveried 
 servant stood in the big hall, looking upward, sniffing 
 the scented atmosphere of the big hotel. 
 
 "Something is burning," he murmured, and moved off 
 toward the carpeted stairs. 
 
 A wreath of smoke drifted across the dome-like open- 
 ing round which the staircase wound. 
 
 The easy-going, opulent, contented atmosphere of 
 the fashionable hotel was shot with a sudden frenzy. 
 
 A woman's voice beat the dead, still air. 
 
 "Fire ! fire !" she screamed. "Fire ! fire ! fire !" 
 
 Dudenay turned pale and began to run up the stairs 
 after the waiter who had watched the first wisp of 
 smoke drift through the lighted dome. 
 
 Malone, at Waring's elbow, swore fiercely. 
 
 "Run, run," he called to a man near him, giving the 
 304
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 very signal the criminals had selected. As Waring fol- 
 lowed him the corridors of the hotel seemed to stream 
 with people. Up and down the passage men were dash- 
 ing, crying out the phrase the detective had used. The 
 signal Ganton had to obey, the words "run, run," set 
 the whole hotel into horrible, panic-stricken motion. 
 The Red Colonel had called, fire was his weapon, and 
 the great hive of lazy wealth, the Hotel Coburg, boiled 
 with hot, unreasoning madness, and seemed suddenly 
 turned into a hive of bees at swarming time. The panic 
 of the many put the people in the hotel at the mercy 
 of the few who remained cool before the unexpected 
 frenzy.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 IN that mad welter men and women lost their heads. 
 Waring, hurrying up the stairs, now the nature 
 of the impending calamity was discovered, found 
 himself acting clearly and coolly. The manager, Du- 
 denay, despite his bland, easy-going appearance, sud- 
 denly revealed the qualities of leadership that had 
 marked him out for his position. A brigade call had 
 been immediately given and he had collected as many 
 male attendants as he could find. With them he was 
 following in the train of the detective, Superintendent 
 Malone, who was moving as quickly as possible to the 
 first floor to meet Ganton. 
 
 Ganton reached the floor almost as soon as Malone 
 had completed the ascent. His white moustache had 
 gone, and all the aged indifference peculiar to the 
 Major. Clad in evening dress, he was knotting a white 
 cambric tie as he ran. His tired manner had disap- 
 peared. He moved rapidly and spoke with crisp de- 
 cision, forming a striking contrast to the habitual 
 drawl he usually employed. The perspiration was 
 running down his face, though outwardly he was the 
 calmest man playing a part in that exciting scene. 
 
 "Ah! Malone," he said, speaking rapidly. "You see 
 the how of it they've fired the third floor, in the east 
 wing the first bedroom floor. All below are reason- 
 ably safe, I should fancy. Get the people moving down 
 until the firemen come. Then bring your men and as 
 
 306
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 many of Dudenay's staff as you can get. We'll stand 
 at the main entrance with a bunch of your fellows. 
 Every man I point out to you must be stopped. And 
 Dudenay should get into the corridors and hold up 
 every man he sees coming out of a bedroom." 
 
 The manager of the hotel and Malone nodded curtly, 
 and turned to their men to give the necessary orders. 
 
 By now panic had the hotel in its grip. Outside the 
 clang of bells announced the arrival of the fire brigade. 
 The helmeted figures tore into the hotel, looked up at 
 the smoke-laden dome and rushed toward the stairway. 
 Guests on the lower floor had tumbled out of the res- 
 taurant, the dining-room and the various lounges. 
 They were all eagerly and excitedly crowding the hall 
 and looking up into the dome where now a dense vol- 
 ume of smoke was drifting across from one of the 
 higher corridors and fogging the white lights. Almost 
 as they looked, the lights upstairs began to disappear. 
 Some one remained cool enough in all the panic to turn 
 the lights off one by one. The smoke was drifting 
 through the bedroom floors. Men were tramping up 
 and down the corridors giving the alarm of fire. The 
 rooms were pouring out their occupants into the dark 
 passages. Women, scantily clad, with hair streaming, 
 or partially dressed, seized such articles of clothing as 
 they could and bolted from the rooms to the passages. 
 Some appeared clutching their jewel boxes. One lady, 
 who wore a man's overcoat over her body linen, was 
 screaming a promise of hundreds of pounds to the hotel 
 porter who would go back and save her forgotten 
 string of pearls. 
 
 Upstairs passage and corridors were in wild disor- 
 307
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 ider. People struggled for the right of way and fought 
 for precedence. In the melee one woman went down 
 and was trampled upon. It was Ganton who forced 
 the crowd to give way and set the woman on her feet 
 again. Everywhere was the tramp of feet. Above the 
 clamor could be heard the shrill screams of women. 
 Now and again peals of high-pitched feminine laughter 
 the strident, terror-laden sounds of hysteria gave 
 to the riot and disorder about the hotel the grim hor- 
 ror of an inferno. Men swore, some softly, others at 
 the top of their voices, and struck out savagely as they 
 tried to force clear passages for the women in their 
 charge. Instead of the soft music of the hotel band, 
 now silenced, there came the steady throb of fire engines 
 at work outside. Above all was to be heard the noise 
 of splintering glass and the beating of hammers on 
 doors, while without warning, a flood of water, pumped 
 into the higher rooms, began to gush down the stairs 
 and dribble through the thick velvety carpets on the 
 steps. 
 
 It was almost impossible to follow the movements of 
 staff, police and firemen through this panic-stricken 
 chaos. Some of the men were trying to fight the fire. 
 Many were seeing to the personal safety of the people 
 in the hotel, so maddened by the sudden alarm as to be 
 unable to take care of themselves. A few, with Ma- 
 lone and Ganton at their head, watched at the main 
 exit from the third floor, while a more resolute gang 
 searched the corridors away from the small fire zone. 
 And downstairs, in the manager's office, a trembling 
 clerk was telephoning Malone's instruction to the 
 watcher at No. 15 Warden Street to stop all who en- 
 
 308
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 tered the premises in Soho and hold them until he ar- 
 rived. 
 
 Waring stood at the bend of the staircase leading 
 from the restaurant. He was watching acutely for the 
 appearance of Gaythorne. Sometimes he helped to mar- 
 shal the passing crowd. At other intervals he eased 
 the strain for a woman who had become wedged against 
 the polished staircase. The water dripping from above 
 fell upon him, and his hair and linen grew sodden. But 
 he remained waiting, and always his resolute eyes were 
 on the restaurant door. 
 
 The time seemed long, but it was only a matter of a 
 few minutes. The people in the restaurant were the 
 slowest to move. Not in any great danger, they were 
 impelled to go ".on eating to the last moment as a dis- 
 play of courage a superb display, grotesque when its 
 quality was compared with the slight element of dan- 
 ger there was to be faced by those on the ground floor. 
 
 Gaythorne alone was one of the last to leave the 
 gorgeous apartment. He stood looking upward at 
 the dome for a moment and then turned and walked 
 rapidly up the stairs. His eyes seemed to see every- 
 thing, though he passed quickly. Waring followed 
 resolutely behind. 
 
 Up the stairs went Gaythorne, past Malone and 
 Dudenay, and along to the bedroom floors. After him 
 went Waring like a shadow, unnoticed among the crowd 
 of jostling people. 
 
 Gaythorne seemed to know every part of the hotel. 
 He turned at the third floor, away from the fire zone, 
 as if he knew the wing to which the destruction was 
 confined. Once round the corner he stopped. Waring, 
 
 309
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 hanging back, saw Gaythorne rumple his hair, tear off 
 the white collar, and wind a handkerchief round his 
 neck. Dabbling his hands in the water oozing every- 
 where, Gaythorne smeared his face. 
 
 At the bottom of the corridor Gaythorne stood and 
 whistled the bar of music, the summons that had meant 
 death to Paul Copeland. 
 
 The sound had no sooner died away than from the 
 opposite corridor the figure of a man came running. 
 Of exceptional bulk, he was breathing heavily and 
 coughing, half strangled by the smoke, and at first 
 could not speak clearly. Even in the darkness, when 
 the man did speak, Waring had no difficulty in recog- 
 nizing the Warbler by the sound of his voice. His very 
 words were significant. 
 
 "It's coming out splendidly," he said, in staccato 
 jerks, but his voice was almost a howl of triumph. 
 
 Gaythorne's voice sounded like the snarl of a dog. 
 
 "Coming out splendidly, be damned," he said. "We 
 are pocketed. Some one has sold us. Is it you you 
 Italian dog." 
 
 "I say all is going well." The Warbler spoke again 
 and the note of triumph rose and swelled. "Chicago 
 Alf has cleared out the dancer's rooms. Talk about 
 stones, why, if he has a pound he's got a fortune." 
 
 "Cut it," barked Gaythorne. "Alf won't get out of 
 here with the goods. Some one has sold us, I say." 
 
 The man's odd earnestness chilled the enthusiasm of 
 the Warbler. 
 
 "What do you mean ?" he asked, his rich voice waver- 
 ing. 
 
 "Why, that every exit is alive with traps," Gay- 
 310
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 thorne answered. "That crook you pulled in at the 
 last minute your man is on the stairs pointing every 
 one of the gang out as he passes to old Malone of Scot- 
 land Yard. He's a trap himself your man ! He's put 
 it on us. We shall be lucky if one of our men gets 
 away. I came up to settle with you." 
 
 "What do you mean, Colonel?" asked the Warbler, 
 his voice suddenly developing an icy edge. "If I may 
 die I did not know." 
 
 "You did not know," growled the Red Colonel. 
 "You must know you brought him in. God! if I 
 thought " 
 
 He stopped and looked behind him. A dull red glare 
 showed behind in the corridor. Dense clouds of smoke 
 were drifting toward them. The hiss of water plashing 
 on fire told of the firemen at work behind the lurid 
 patch. 
 
 "Cut off," the Warbler said, and, seeing another man, 
 Waring, in the passage, turned to bolt. 
 
 "The fire escape," the Red Colonel shouted. 
 
 They ran down the next corridor. A door in the 
 wall, opening outward, yielding to their pressure. The 
 two men were out on the iron frame that went down- 
 ward into the big gloomy well of the quadrangle. By 
 their manner it would seem they expected to find it 
 there. 
 
 They were poised on the dizzy steps some way below 
 Waring, who was following slowly. He heard their 
 voices drifting upward to him. They had stopped in 
 the perilous descent, the Warbler three steps below the 
 big figure of the Red Colonel, his face turned upward 
 and catching the light from a window. 
 
 311
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Some one has sold us," the Red Colonel kept on re- 
 peating irritably. "There'll be damned ugly inquiries 
 after this. God pity you if I find your man, the 
 Major, was in this with you!" 
 
 The Warbler's voice rose high. 
 
 "Mark yourself!" he shouted fiercely. "I'm not the 
 knocker. If it comes to selling there's been enough 
 dirty work already, and it has not been mine. Who 
 did Cunning in? Cunning was all right." 
 
 "Go on, you dog get down," growled the Red 
 Colonel, "and mind what you say, or, by the living God, 
 I'll throw you off the iron staircase." 
 
 "Bah! Spit out your fury," the Warbler taunted. 
 "If we've been sold I did not sell. You are more likely 
 to do the double cross. You put the blame on Cunning 
 for Copeland. You put him away. You put a line 
 on me for Mark James' end with that cub Waring, and 
 you hid behind that damned alibi for your night's work. 
 It seems to me we all take risks but you these days 
 
 Waring could see the bold Italian face. It was no 
 longer smiling. The teeth were bared in ferocious an- 
 ger as he turned with a growl to go down the iron 
 steps. 
 
 Waring, surprised, watched the two men quarreling. 
 He realized the jealousies of these criminals, split up by 
 a traitor in the past and no longer trusting each other. 
 Softly he went down the staircase a full flight of steps 
 behind them. They seemed concentrated on their own 
 grievances, oblivious to his presence on the steps, possi- 
 bly taking him for some panic-stricken patron of the 
 hotel. Looking down on them as they went jerkily 
 
 312
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 along the dizzy, winding, iron framework, Waring saw 
 the Red Colonel suddenly leap upon the man going 
 down the stairs, three steps below him. 
 
 "You know too much," he hissed, fastening himself 
 on the man. The two wrestled in a clinch upon the 
 frail footway for a few seconds, broken only by their 
 heavy breathing. The advantage of position was with 
 the Red Colonel. 
 
 "For the love of God, man, ease up," panted the 
 Warbler at last. "We'll both be over. Let's get out 
 of this. We can settle this barney after." 
 
 "No; we'll settle now," the Red Colonel said, with 
 a gasp, "here, on the spot." 
 
 By a fierce effort, Gaythorne threw all his weight 
 upon the man struggling two steps below him and, with 
 a sudden application of impetus, sent the Warbler fly- 
 ing headlong down the steep pathway. The man's 
 body hurtled through the air, scarcely bumping the 
 steps, until it was brought up sharp against the next 
 platform a full story below. The flight ended with a 
 thud that jarred the crazy steps. The Warbler 
 moaned slightly as his bulk crashed on the iron sup- 
 port, but his body did not stir. 
 
 With rapid springs the Red Colonel followed down 
 the steps and peered at the still figure of the prostrate 
 man. Then, by an effort of sheer strength, he lifted 
 the bulky form, poised it high over the railings, and, 
 with a swing, sent the Warbler to his doom. Without 
 pity or mercy, he flung the man over the railings, leav- 
 ing the body to fall through space, until it struck the 
 glass work of the palm lounge a hundred feet below. 
 
 "The dog he was beginning to bite. He knew too 
 313
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 much," Gaythorne was saying aloud, as if speaking 
 the thought surging in his mind. And at that mo- 
 ment he seemed to become conscious of Waring's fol- 
 lowing presence on the stairs. 
 
 With a bound Gaythorne went down the remaining 
 steps. Waring followed as rapidly as he could and was 
 gaining. The man stopped in his tracks. There was a 
 flash of light in the darkness. A bullet impinged on the 
 iron railing behind Waring. Another flash, and War- 
 ing heard the bullet whistle near his own ears. A third 
 explosive flash and the arm Waring was using to 
 steady himself on the stairway turned helpless and 
 seemed to have grown suddenly hot and cold. 
 Blood, sticky, damp and warm, flooded over his white 
 hand. 
 
 He shouted with the sudden pain. The figure be- 
 low laughed wildly and continued to run recklessly 
 down the steps until Gaythorne was on the ground floor 
 in the basement of the hotel. When Waring followed 
 he found himself going through a door leading to the 
 kitchens. The man in front had disappeared in the 
 gloom. Panting, his sobbing breath almost choking 
 him, Waring threaded his way through the winding 
 passages, and after many vain turnings found himself 
 ascending, and a few moments later vaguely realized he 
 was now on the ground floor of the hotel. 
 
 He thrust open a door and, blinking with surprise, 
 found himself in the dazzling light of the main entrance 
 hall, still in confusion, crowded with people, some now 
 laughing, for the worst of the nightmare panic was 
 over. 
 
 Waring ran up the main stairway to the first floor.
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Malone and Ganton were still there, watching the last 
 people come from the upper parts of the hotel. 
 
 "God, old man, have you seen a ghost?" Ganton 
 asked, looking into Waring' s working face. 
 
 Malone's eyes, fixed on the motionless arm, saw the 
 stain of the dripping blood. 
 
 "You are hurt," he said anxiously. 
 
 "Only a trifle," Waring answered, the hawklike ex- 
 pression of the hunter more pronounced upon his pale 
 features, his eagerness to strike aroused and implaca- 
 ble. "Out of this," he urged. "Never mind me. It's 
 only a scratch. But the game is up. Gaythorne, the 
 Red Colonel, has gone. Follow him with me. We'll 
 try for him at 32 Beddoes Street. It is our last 
 chance." 
 
 The two men, comprehending his meaning, turned to 
 speak rapidly to the officers about them, and at once 
 followed Waring out of the hotel and into the street, a 
 dozen plain clothes men running at their heels.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 AT a few minutes before nine on the Saturday 
 night, about the hour the panic ended at the 
 Hotel Coburg, the house Number 32 gloomed 
 in Beddoes Street without betraying any signs that it 
 was occupied. 
 
 Almost as' the clock was striking the hour, a car tore 
 (down the street, and drew up opposite Mr. Gay- 
 thorne's residence. That worthy dropped quietly out 
 of the car, spoke a word or two to the chauffeur, and 
 with a latch key entered the house. A man on the 
 other side of the road, slowly walking along the pave- 
 ment, noted the car and moved swiftly from the door. 
 
 As soon as Gaythorne entered, the interior showed 
 visible signs of the owner's presence. A light appeared 
 in the room on the first floor where Waring had inter- 
 viewed him and other rooms of the house seemed also 
 to spring into life. 
 
 Within ten minutes two taxi-cabs turned the corner 
 of the street and stopped gome distance away from 
 Number 32. 
 
 The first car discovered the presence of Waring, 
 Ganton and two plain clothes officers. Five others 
 were aboard the second car, and one of these men was 
 Superintendent Malone. 
 
 He appeared to have instructed the men with whom 
 he had traveled, for they quickly dispersed. 
 
 Malone strode up to Waring, Ganton and the two 
 316
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 other officers and they remained for the space of half 
 a minute conversing in the street. As they did so, in 
 response to a sign from Malone, the man idling about 
 when Gaythorne's car drove up crossed over, and made 
 a report as to who had passed into the suspected house. 
 
 "That settles it," Malone said crisply. "He is in 
 and we may as well go for him at once." 
 
 They walked quietly to the door and Malone pulled 
 vigorously on the bell. 
 
 Promptly the door was thrown open by the man 
 Waring knew as Delane. He hesitated when he saw so 
 many men at the entrance, and seemed about to close 
 the door. Superintendent Malone stepped forward and 
 forced him back. 
 
 "That will do, my man. I am Superintendent Ma- 
 lone," he added crisply. "I want to see Mr. Gay- 
 thorne. Wilson and Green, you will wait in the hall. 
 I will go up with my two friends." 
 
 Malone did not leave Delane to go forward alone. 
 He went up the steps in the wake of the servant, Gan- 
 ton and Waring following. As soon as Delane reached 
 the room he tapped on the door and announced Malone. 
 They heard the noise made by some one stirring in the 
 apartment. Then Waring recognized Gaythorne's 
 voice. Smooth and suave, he was giving the servant in- 
 structions. 
 
 "Ask Superintendent Malone to come in," he said 
 briefly. 
 
 The door was thrown open and the officer walked 
 forward. Waring and Ganton followed him into the 
 room. Their invasion of the apartment received a 
 check when they saw the occupant. Malone bit his 
 
 317
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 lip doubtfully. Waring could scarcely believe his 
 eyes. 
 
 Seated in a deep leather chair before the fire was 
 Gaythorne. Stanley had seen him, stained by the 
 water, and deliberately making his appearance more 
 disheveled. He had also just returned from that peril- 
 ous altercation on the fire escape. But there was noth- 
 ing in his manner to suggest any kind of adventure 
 creditable or discreditable. He turned lazily in the 
 chair, arched his eyebrows with some surprise as he 
 saw three men in the place of the one announced and 
 rose slowly. He was dressed carefully not a stain or 
 a mark upon his clothes or linen, not a detail of his 
 appearance disheveled. A half-smoked cigarette was 
 gripped easily between his fingers. A tumbler, on a 
 small polished table, was partially filled with whisky 
 and soda. A tray, with coffee, stood upon the same 
 table, and had evidently been used. Gaythorne looked 
 to all intents and purposes what he pretended to be a 
 man of fashion who had dined quietly at home. Only 
 Waring, who knew the man well, realized that the ac- 
 centuated droop of the snarling lower lip, despite the 
 man's smiles, was a plain indication of rising anger. 
 
 "This is rather an unwarrantable intrusion," he said 
 easily, his voice perfectly assured. 
 
 Superintendent Malone, whose confidence was visibly 
 shaken, recovered himself quickly. 
 
 "The police have to take chances," he said bluntly, 
 "and we may make mistakes. If our intrusion is a mis- 
 take, we are here on a purpose you, as a law-abiding 
 man, should be the first to condone. If you resent what 
 may be an error, you will have a remedy." 
 
 318
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Gaythorne bowed, with a cynical smile upon his 
 face. 
 
 "I think the presence of Dr. Waring indicates the 
 nature of your error. Still, since you are here, I am 
 prepared to hear your reasons for a course of action 
 that, at first sight, seems to be a studied insult." 
 
 The four men stood confronting each other, for a 
 few seconds, amid a dead silence. Neither Malone, 
 Ganton nor Waring had expected to find Gaythorne 
 prepared to carry the war to them so uncompromis- 
 ingly. Waring, knowing the man's cleverness, was 
 wondering how far Gaythorne was prepared to meet 
 the evidence he was now able to offer. 
 
 "I am here to ask you to account for your move- 
 ments since the hour of six o'clock," Malone suggested 
 tersely. 
 
 Gaythorne smiled. 
 
 "Before I do," he said calmly, "I shall want a good 
 reason for meeting your wishes. Had you not better 
 formulate precisely what is in your mind." 
 
 Superintendent Malone eyed his man squarely. 
 
 "I am investigating a bold plan to plunder the Hotel 
 Coburg this evening. I have some reason for believing 
 the origination of the plan is concerned with ia band 
 of cosmopolitan criminals called the Red Four. I am 
 particularly anxious for any light that may be shed 
 upon their leader the Red Colonel." 
 
 Gaythorne's expression did not change, but the pu- 
 pils of his eyes narrowed and his underlip jutted sig- 
 nificantly. 
 
 "And so you force yourself into my house," he said 
 ironically. His head went well back, his straight frame 
 
 319
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 bristled and his next words were a deliberate challenge. 
 "I presume you think I am this Red Colonel." 
 
 "Yes," Malone said sternly. "We may be mistaken, 
 but that is precisely our line of thought. You may 
 volunteer such explanation as you choose to make, but, 
 in any case, I am prepared to go to the length of de- 
 taining you, until the whole of the incidents of the 
 evening are satisfactorily cleared up." 
 
 "Humph," Gaythorne ejaculated, looking smilingly 
 from one face to another. 
 
 He seemed to hesitate for a moment and then ap- 
 parently made up his mind. 
 
 "Suppose I say I have not been out to-night that I 
 have dined here?" he asked. 
 
 "I should reply that I myself, Waring and Dudenay, 
 the manager, saw you at the Hotel Coburg," Malone 
 replied. 
 
 "What you saw would not be very satisfactory evi- 
 dence against the word of a man of position, his per- 
 sonal servants and the friend who joined me at dinner," 
 Gaythorne said pointedly. "You cannot connect me 
 with anything outside the life you see me leading 
 here." 
 
 "We should have to take the risk," Malone answered 
 grimly. "I should go further, too, and suggest you 
 were at the Hotel Coburg with a convicted criminal, 
 Chicago Alf. And I have proof that you have been 
 out, for one of my men saw you come back here." 
 
 The other laughed easily. 
 
 "Who is Chicago Alf?" he asked banteringly. 
 
 "We have him in custody now," Malone said. "At 
 least he is no vision." 
 
 320
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "So ! I deny all knowledge of him," Gaythorne re- 
 plied, the smile fading from his lips. 
 
 "We do not rest our case entirely on that," Malone 
 said. "In addition to your share of to-night's work, 
 Ganton and Waring can prove seeing you at 15 War- 
 den Street with the Warbler." 
 
 "Who is this Warbler?" asked the Red Colonel, with 
 superb effrontery. 
 
 "The man you threw off the fire escape in the 
 quadrangle of the Hotel Coburg," Waring said. "I 
 have a little souvenir of our meeting to-night." 
 
 As he spoke Waring held up his slightly wounded 
 arm, now neatly bandaged. 
 
 "A pretty story," Gaythorne sneered, but his face 
 paled. 
 
 "It is not the only story we depend upon," Malone 
 answered. "Waring is prepared to state he actually 
 saw you on the night Cunning was murdered at Way- 
 side Lodge, overheard your conversation, and was pres- 
 ent at Cunning's murder." 
 
 The other staggered as if he had been struck. 
 
 "A lie a damned lie. I have an alibi. I was at a 
 dance that night." Gaythorne spoke angrily, and the 
 easy smile of the nonchalant man of the world had left 
 his face. He was frowning heavily. The bird-like, 
 wavering eyes of the man flickered. The heavy under- 
 lip hung out, dog-like, the teeth showing wet under the 
 moustache. 
 
 "Waring seems to know much," he said, after a 
 pause. "I deny all knowledge of Cunning's end. There 
 is no proof that he is even dead." 
 
 "The mere announcement of identification by Waring 
 321
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 will bring the police hot on jour tracks," Malone in- 
 sisted. 
 
 Waring smiled into the other's angry face as the 
 wandering eyes flickered over the three faces of the ac- 
 cusing men. 
 
 Gaythorne stood before them, a man at bay at last. 
 He had ceased to pretend he was unconcerned. He 
 looked with an anger he could not conceal at each of 
 the three men in turn, but when his eyes rested on War- 
 ing's grim, smiling face his rage became almost malevo- 
 lent. 
 
 "It is a tissue of falsehoods," he snarled. "This 
 man, Waring who will believe his far-fetched story? 
 And, even if it were true, who is to connect me with 
 this extraordinary tale? I have lived in London too 
 long as a man of good repute to be caught by a chain 
 of facts so vague. The world would believe me you 
 would have to prove my connection with these men be- 
 yond doubt." 
 
 "And that we can do," Malone said, spreading a 
 banknote on the table. "That is the print of the hand 
 of the man who murdered Paul Copeland." 
 
 "I know," sneered Gaythorne, looking on the blood- 
 smeared sheet. "And it has one finger missing," he 
 added meaningly. "Cunning had that finger miss- 
 
 ing." 
 
 "Cunning, the night he died, accused you of leaving 
 that print to incriminate him," Waring said sternly. 
 "But the print was made by you. We dare you to put 
 another print of your hand side by side with it." 
 
 "A lie," Gaythorne insisted. "The hand is Cun- 
 ning's it shows the missing finger." 
 
 322
 
 "The hand is yours; we have already compared the 
 print with another." 
 
 "You have no print of my hand," Gaythorne sneered 
 boldly. "You cannot have compared my hand with this 
 banknote clew." 
 
 Waring drew from his pocket a small parcel and out 
 of it took the photographic print marked "The Red 
 Colonel" handed to him by Paul Copeland. 
 
 "That is a print of your hand, too," he said simply. 
 
 "We challenge you to show a print of your own 
 hand against the two," Malone urged calmly. 
 
 "And even then I deny everything," Gaythorne 
 shouted. "I fight you point by point and trust to my 
 social position to pull me out of this web of lies. You 
 cannot make either judge or jury believe there is any 
 direct association between myself and these shady men 
 and their criminal actions. I fight you lie for lie." 
 
 "We shall fight your lies with a truth for each one," 
 Malone said sternly. 
 
 "Yes, and if we fail, a lie will convict you a lie that 
 will prove your direct association with Copeland," 
 Waring said, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. "You are 
 in possession of the proceeds of robberies by the Red 
 Four. The treasure for a clew to which you hunted 
 Copeland to his doom, and murdered Cunning, is in 
 your actual possession now. The oddest point in this 
 strange web is the most damning one, although it is 
 not truthful evidence. If we cannot bring you down 
 with the truth, we shall wing you by a lie that seems 
 to have been uttered by an avenging God of Fate." 
 
 Both Ganton and Malone stared at Waring in ex- 
 treme surprise. 
 
 323
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Gaythorne turned a shade more pale, but his nerve 
 only wavered an instant. 
 
 "The man is mad," he said irately. "I have none of 
 this treasure. Why, for years I hunted the world for 
 Copeland to find it. You would never have heard of 
 me, but " 
 
 He stopped suddenly, and moistened his dry, hang- 
 ing underlip with his tongue. 
 
 Waring laid out the design found with Paul Cope- 
 land's papers. 
 
 "That is the clew to the hidden booty," he said 
 calmly. "Look at it closely, Malone, and watch your 
 prisoner." 
 
 They looked on the sheet with its strange design 
 marked with the letters "Fl. 32 Bed. R. M." It was 
 meaningless to both Ganton and Malone. But the Red 
 Colonel, gazing intently, his bird-like eyes almost 
 standing out of his head, broke out into a cold per- 
 spiration. 
 
 "God," he said, "what devil's luck! The mantel- 
 piece P' 
 
 "Watch him," said Waring, for Gaythorne, with ris- 
 ing anger, was moving suspiciously. 
 
 Malone stood slightly behind Gaythorne so that his 
 every movement was under the detective's observation. 
 
 Waring walked to the fireplace in the room. 
 
 "Look at this design," he said, holding out the bris- 
 tol board and displaying the drawing. "And now look 
 at the central panel in this stone mantelpiece." 
 
 They looked, Ganton and Malone surprised, the Red 
 Colonel almost purple with anger. 
 
 "What does it mean ?" asked Ganton. 
 324
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 "Why, that this drawing is a reproduction of the 
 central panel of that mantelpiece. Copeland lived here 
 and his treasure is buried behind the panel. The let- 
 ters and figures Fl. 32 Bed. R. M., have only one 
 meaning. Floor 1, 32 Beddoes Street, right medallion. 
 You will observe that in either corner of the design are 
 two medallions one on the left and one on the right. 
 This, another of Copeland's hoarded secrets, is the 
 charm likely to reveal the treasure." 
 
 'As Waring spoke he produced Copeland's key, the 
 top of which was button-shaped and strangely carved 
 an exact reproduction of the medallion carved as a 
 Idecoration on the center panel of the mantelpiece. 
 
 Standing there, Waring reached for the poker. 
 With the heavy knob he struck the right medallion 
 sharply upon its edge. It was not part of the solid 
 block of marble and came away in one piece to War- 
 ing's delight, for it proved the truth of a theory he 
 had formed from a glimpse of the mantelpiece as he 
 had seen it the day he visited Gaythorne. And under 
 it was an aperture just big enough to admit the key. 
 Waring fumbled a minute through over-eagerness, but 
 the key fitted the lock. Turned slowly, it released a 
 
 325
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 spring and the whole of the central panel swung open, 
 a cunningly contrived door, revealing an aperture be- 
 hind. Thrusting in his uninjured hand, Waring began 
 to pull out the various objects he touched. One of the 
 first articles he handled was a case which when opened 
 contained a string of black pearls, obviously worth a 
 fabulous sum. Another was a roll of canvas, which, 
 when spread out, was certainly the Rembrandt stolen 
 twenty or more years before from the French Louvre. 
 From the small boxlike aperture in the mantelpiece 
 Waring quickly transferred the treasure of the Red 
 Four stolen by Copeland, for which so many lives had 
 been sacrificed chiefly jewels of priceless value, scin- 
 tillating brightly as they met the light after their 
 tempting fires had been hidden for so many years. 
 
 The most interested man in that room was Gay- 
 thorne. His face had paled before, but now his lips 
 whitened. His eyes flickered passionately as he real- 
 ized he had sat before the hidden treasure, day by day, 
 for years, and yet had not known it a painfully gall- 
 ing thought. His breath came in short, sharp spasms, 
 as if he were in an agony of pain. His lower lip hung, 
 flecked with the froth of a consuming anger. 
 
 "That's good enough for me," Malone said. "Gay- 
 thorne, I take a chance on you, for I am going to hold 
 you as the Red Colonel." 
 
 "That devil, Waring, knew this all the time," Gay- 
 thorne almost shrieked, beside himself with rage. 
 "Well, damn him, if I sink, he shall !" With a sudden 
 movement, he drew a heavy revolver, and poised it to 
 cover Waring. Ganton was only just in time to knock 
 the weapon upward. The noise of the explosion jarred 
 
 326
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 the room and the bullet splintered the glass over a 
 hanging picture. 
 
 Malone, from behind, wrenched the weapon out of 
 the man's grip. As he did so, Gaythorne stepped two 
 paces back, slipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket, 
 tore open a little blue paper and swallowed its contents, 
 a white powder. 
 
 "You shall not take me," he said, with a ghastly 
 smile upon his working face. "The Red Colonel goes 
 free. You may wait and watch the Red Colonel go 
 free." 
 
 Nor had they long to wait, for the deadly poison 
 worked quickly. Gaythorne's face grew purple and 
 knotted as if he were being strangled, and what was 
 once a king of crime, after a series of convulsive move- 
 ments, suddenly sat still in the easy-chair he had sunk 
 into immediately after swallowing the powder. The 
 Red Colonel died from the poison he had taken in sight 
 of the secret resting place of Paul Copeland's buried 
 treasure. 
 
 Little remains to be told. The majority of those 
 concerned in the attack on the Hotel Coburg were 
 taken, either in the hotel or at 15 Warden Street. The 
 body of the Warbler was found badly mangled soon 
 after the panic had subsided in the quadrangle of the 
 hotel. Chicago Alf, taken red-handed, told all he knew, 
 but it was not a complete history of the movements of 
 the Red Four. 
 
 The central fact that did emerge was that Gay- 
 thorne, the Warbler, Copeland and Cunning were the 
 
 327
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 Red Four. The nature of their quarrel was never 
 known, for there was no one to tell. But, whatever had 
 happened to cause the break, Copeland had apparently 
 made off with the bulk of the treasure, and had tried 
 to put away the rest of his associates. The three who 
 were betrayed had hung together, in the hope of get- 
 ting a line on the missing treasure, then unnegotiable, 
 but had lived and worked with growing distrust of each 
 other. Their first trace of Copeland had been to find 
 him living openly in London, installed in Beddoes 
 Street, where he had hidden his treasure. When Cope- 
 land decamped, Gaythorne had taken the house, believ- 
 ing if he remained there long enough the owner would 
 return. The history of their final discovery of Cope- 
 land and the incidents leading to their repeated at- 
 tempts to recover track of the booty is familiar to the 
 reader. 
 
 Three days later, after inquiry and investigation, 
 Ganton sat down to write what proved one of the big- 
 gest stories The Daily Intelligence ever published ; the 
 details form the framework on which your author has 
 built this yarn. And on the Sunday following the Red 
 Colonel's end, Waring telephoned to Missingham, and 
 spoke to Vesta Copeland. Her anxiety turned to joy 
 when she heard the last of the terrible Red Four had 
 perished. 
 
 The treasure was given up voluntarily by Waring. 
 Vesta had her own income preserved to her through 
 the shrewdness of the dead lawyer, Mark S. James. 
 Before the end of the summer she married Waring. 
 Stanley went into private practice and became a pro- 
 fessional worker, whose routine was and still is a fight 
 
 328
 
 THE RED COLONEL 
 
 with a greater social enemy than the Red Colonel 
 Time, the destroyer, who takes toll upon us all. 
 Sometimes, as a rest from the jading round of medi- 
 cal practice, Waring and his pretty wife go to the 
 concerts. Occasionally, a well-known tenor will sing 
 an equally well-known air from an old classic opera. 
 As its last bars die away, Waring and his wife will sit, 
 holding each other's hands, strangely moved, perhaps a 
 little chilled with recollections of horrors they cannot 
 forget. The air in the last lines recalls again to both 
 the rough man who slouched down the lonely road by 
 Wayside Lodge, whistling as he went, on the night of 
 the first murder, and once more Waring sees the figure 
 of the Warbler, as he stood outside the school-house, 
 trolling the Red Colonel's signal, and waiting to bar- 
 gain for the secret due to the stolen fortune of the Red 
 Four. 
 
 THE END 
 
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